The Detective and the Diplomat
by Beth Einspanier
Summary: Two mysteries. Two of the greatest minds in the multiverse. One variable. Oh bugger... Sherlock Holmes - Discworld crossover FINISHED!
1. Mysteries and Variables

The Detective and the Diplomat [working title]  
by Beth Einspanier  
  
Disclaimer: I do not own Discworld or its related characters or locations. These are the property  
of Terry Pratchett, and I am using them without permission. I also do not own Sherlock Holmes,  
Dr. Watson, Mrs. Hudson, or London. These [with the notable exception of London] are the  
property of Arthur Conan Doyle, and are also used without permission. If anyone is thinking of  
suing me on these grounds, that person has no life. Other characters are mine. All rights  
reserved.  
  
Author's note: For the longest time I'd been wondering who was smarter: Sherlock Holmes or  
Lord Havelock Vetinari. What started out as a whimsical mental exercise may eventually turn  
into a story, though it will certainly be interesting switching between the Pratchett style and the  
Doyle style. Fans of each should feel free to check my consistency. Wish me luck.  
  
Author's other note: Throughout this fic I will be switching back and forth between London and  
Ankh-Morpork, which I will indicate at the beginning of each section. Any sections without a  
heading are pretty multiversal. If you get confused, just remember that this is a little like watching  
"Frequency," only with no radio, no Aurora Borealis, and no intratemporal bridging.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
It was around March when Sherlock Holmes and I separately embarked upon the most curious  
series of events that no-one in London ever saw. This was, of course, by design, or so it was  
explained to me, or else something quantum would happen. Being a lowly physician, I did not  
even pretend to know what the young man with the purple hair was talking about, but he forebore  
any further explanation.  
  
But I am getting ahead of myself.  
  
The evening immediately preceding what I will call The Event was a quiet one, rather to Holmes'  
increasing annoyance. For the better part of the week he had leafed through various editions of  
the four local newspapers on which he frequently relied for mental stimulation between cases of  
citywide or even national importance, but to judge by his increasing torpor they were barren of  
any puzzles. Even the weather seemed to share his sentiments, for the wind was picking up and I  
could hear thunder rumbling in the distance. I hoped it would blow over by morning.  
  
He was just about to retire for the evening out of sheer frustration when a telegram arrived for  
Holmes. His previous lethargy notwithstanding, he leaped from the wicker chair with enough  
vigour to nearly overturn it, and swooped down at the alarmed messenger, snatching the telegram  
from the poor boy's hand. He tore it open and scanned it eagerly, leaving me to tip the  
messenger. I gave the boy a bit extra to compensate for the fright Holmes had given him, and  
sent him on his way. I turned back from closing the door in time to see Holmes' expression  
sharpen in interest.  
  
"What is it?" I asked.  
  
"A curious incident at a birthday party."  
  
"What sort of a curious incident?"  
  
"An explosion." As was generally the case, he offhanded way of mentioning the presumed  
highlight of the birthday party drove me to respond.  
  
"An explosion! Goodness, Holmes, who would set a bomb at a birthday party?"  
  
He brandished the telegram. "Our client will call upon us at noon tomorrow. I'm certain he will  
be quite happy to fill in the particulars of the event."  
  
Little did I know that Holmes would already be gone by tomorrow morning.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
Ponder Stibbons, Reader of Invisible Writings, head of the Department of Inadvisably Applied  
Magic, and the unofficial award-winner of Furthest in Appearance from a Member of a Grunge  
Band amongst the recent graduates of Unseen University who shared the High Energy Magic  
building, was never confused. He was frequently curious, occasionally perplexed, and sometimes  
bloody annoyed(a), but he was never confused.  
  
He watched with great curiosity through his pocket omniscope - cunningly adapted, he thought,  
from the broken crystal previously used [a/n: cf. The Last Hero] - as Skazz, under the expert  
guidance of the Librarian, emerged from L-Space into... a library. This was no surprise to  
Ponder, since the reading of invisible writings was based largely on L-Space, which connected all  
libraries in the multiverse and in which existed every book ever written, or would be written. But  
the library that Skazz and the Librarian had left from only obeyed the natural laws of size and  
volume when it felt like it, which wasn't terribly often. The one they were in now seemed like  
one of the more boring sort, where the books didn't try to bite you and it was actually smaller  
inside than outside.  
  
"All right Skazz," Ponder said into the omniscope, "show me around a bit. Let's see where you  
are."  
  
The next image Ponder saw with any clarity was an up-close view of the Librarian's left eye and  
left nostril. Since the Librarian was a 300-pound orangutan, it was disturbingly easy to see his  
nasal passages very clearly from this proximity.  
  
"*Slower*, please," Ponder grimaced, trying to banish the image from his head, "I hardly saw  
anything on that first pass. And *don't* put it so close to the Librarian."  
  
Mercifully, the view panned away, more slowly, away from the simian sinuses and across the rows  
and rows of books - Ponder guessed they only had a finite number immediately available - until it  
framed a door leading outside.  
  
"Where to now?" Skazz asked tinnily through the omniscope.  
  
"Outside," Ponder replied, "Remember the landmark we're looking for."  
  
"Right. Big clocktower."  
  
"Now remember, we roll at midnight, so be in position by then." He pulled his pocket-watch  
from the pocket of his robes and opened it. The watch - or more precisely the imp within the  
watch - said that it was eleven-fifty-two and did he know that this was the seventeenth time it'd  
been consulted that evening. He pocketed the watch. "Eight minutes," he told Skazz, ignoring  
the muffled cursing within his robe.  
  
"Right," said Skazz, and when he started running Ponder had a choice between shutting his  
omniscope or getting motion sick. He opted for the former, pocketing the device so he could  
attend to rechecking Hex's settings. He'd done a double teleport of this type twice before - both  
times with Rincewind as a test subject - but never across such a vast distance before.  
  
+++ARE YOU SURE YOU WANT TO DO THIS (Y/N)+++QUERY+++  
  
"I'm sure," Ponder reassured Hex, then called over his shoulder, "Drongo! Is Tezz in place?"  
  
"He's right by Old Tom," Adrian "Big Mad Drongo" Turnipseed called back, "And I think he  
nicked a book from your room to read while he waits."  
  
"Which book?" Ponder asked.  
  
"'Nymphs and Satyrs at Play'."  
  
Ponder coloured. "I don't own any book by that title!" he protested  
  
The message was relayed to Tezz, and when Tezz replied, Adrian started laughing so hard he  
could scarcely pass it along to Ponder.  
  
"It... it... it has... oh gods... it has your name... wizard-written... on the inside front cover!" he  
finally managed to choke out.  
  
Ponder turned an interesting shade and abruptly turned back towards the computer, certain he  
wouldn't live this one down. Permanently etching his name inside the front cover, like a lot of  
things, had seemed like a good idea at the time. He never expected anyone else in the department  
to find it, to be sure.  
  
What really hurt was that it was a specially engraved seventh edition with the enchanted full-  
motion centrefold on pages 32 and 33.  
  
Finally, Hex chirped at Ponder to indicate the two minute countdown. He relayed the message to  
the rest of the team and started casting the complicated spell that would make Skazz and Tezz  
switch places. This was a more refined version of the previous spell, thanks to Ponder's  
tinkering, and so could be cast by a single wizard rather than a circle of them(b). All things being  
equal, of course, the double teleport was, to be sure, easier than a single teleport, because of  
conservation of matter. Skazz and Tezz were very nearly the same size and build, so naturally it  
fell to them to be the guinea pigs.  
  
Ponder was nearing the last syllable of the incantation when he suddenly realised that he had to  
sneeze. *Oh no,* he thought, knowing that it was too late to abort the spell. *Okay, just try to  
ignore it.* He shut his eyes and continued chanting.  
  
The sneeze patiently and graciously waited until the middle of the last syllable to go ahead and  
happen regardless.  
  
(a) usually when trying to explain to the Archchancellor what exactly he did during his research.  
(b) mainly because Ponder didn't want to have to ask the senior wizards for help with an  
experiment (see footnote a).  
  
*****  
  
The variable rippled across the Multiverse. It was big and it was quantum, and it did exactly what  
Ponder Stibbons (or anyone else) did not expect it to do. It switched two people in the target  
cities, to be sure, but...  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
BIG BEN NEARLY DESTROYED IN FREAK STORM  
Thousands of Londoners were awakened by what some compared to cannonfire during last  
night's unprecedented thunderstorm, during which witnesses say Big Ben was struck by a massive  
bolt of lightning that, miraculously, left almost no damage in the noble structure before arcing  
away across the rooftops 'almost like it was looking for someone to hit,' according to one  
witness...  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
"Er, Ponder?" Drongo asked as Ponder blew his nose. Smoke and the smell of burning tin filled  
the air.  
  
"What?"  
  
"Tezz is still here."  
  
Ponder stuffed the handkerchief into his pocket (causing a fresh wave of protests from his pocket-  
watch) and looked over at Drongo. "Are you quite sure?" he asked, a horrible sense of  
realisation starting to develop in his stomach like some parasitic alien.  
  
"Either he never left, or his hair never left." This was, of course a valid argument, considering  
that the common theory was that Tezz had not had a trim in... well, ever, and so he looked as  
though he had a sheepdog in his family tree.  
  
"Oh, hell," Ponder muttered. He knew the spell had gone off... but-- He fished the omniscope  
from his pocket. "Skazz?"  
  
"Still here," Skazz said grainily, "I thought you said midnight."  
  
"Did anything... happen over there?" Ponder ventured.  
  
"I nearly got hit by octarine lightning. Does that count?"  
  
"Lightning?" That'd be the spell, Ponder knew. It should have bounced off the clocktower and  
hit Skazz.  
  
"Yeah - great big bolt hit the clocktower and then arced off somewhere else."  
  
"You have to find out where that bolt hit. This could be crucial."  
  
"Ponder... a variable happened, didn't it?"  
  
Ponder looked pained. "Just go and find out where the bolt hit. I have a feeling that the wrong  
people got switched."  
  
Skazz paled slightly. This could get seriously quantum. "Who?" he asked.  
  
*****  
  
End Part 1. 


	2. A Meeting of Minds

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
I was awakened in the middle of the night by a series of crashes, thuds, and curses emanating  
from Holmes' bedroom. I knew how much Holmes valued his privacy, but the voice coming from  
the room was an unfamiliar one, and I knew that Holmes would repel any invader if he were able  
to do so. What alarmed me about the noises was that I didn't hear Holmes doing any such thing.   
  
I slipped from my own bed, put on my robe and slippers, and lit a lantern. It was starting to  
sound as though someone were merely stumbling about haphazardly, unaware or unconcerned  
that he might wake others with his clumsiness. Regardless, I quickly located my revolver,  
checked that it was loaded, and made my way to Holmes' bedroom.  
  
As I reached the door, the noises ceased abruptly. I heard someone breathing on the other side of  
the door. I quailed momentarily at this point - I was about to confront an intruder who was  
apparently skilled enough to subdue Holmes, who was no weakling. With an effort, I steeled my  
nerves and snatched open the door, shining my lantern into the room in the hopes of momentarily  
blinding Holmes' assailant and giving Holmes himself a chance to escape.  
  
My light illuminated a strange man with a lean build, caught in the act of rubbing a bruised shin.   
He squinted through the lantern-light at me with keen black eyes above an elegant, aquiline nose.   
His black hair was mussed, as though he'd just been awakened from a sound sleep, and he had a  
neatly trimmed goatee that might have come from an earlier era of British history. In all he  
vaguely resembled a hunting falcon. He straightened up, and I saw then that he was wearing a  
nightdress at least a size too long for him - the sleeves nearly came to his fingertips and the hem  
reached his feet. He wore a pair of Holmes' slippers, and with a shock I realised that the  
nightdress was one of Holmes' as well.  
  
"Who are you?" I demanded of him, emphasizing my question by pointing my revolver at him.  
  
"My name is Lord Havelock Vetinari," he said in a clipped tenor, "And I will thank you to point  
that device elsewhere and tell me who *you* are."  
  
"I *live* here!" I snapped, my aim not wavering in the slightest, "What have you done with  
Holmes?"  
  
"I'm sure I don't know who you're talking about," he said keenly, "But I do have a theory, unless  
you're intent upon killing me."  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
The man who now occupied the Patrician's bed, awakened by the sensation of movement, knew  
within the first five nanoseconds of consciousness that something was horribly wrong. He sat up  
abruptly, his hands exploring the bed in the darkness like the whiskers of a cat, noting the silk  
bedsheets, the fluffy down pillow with the silk pillow-slip, and the elegantly carved headboard.  
  
His night-dress appeared to have shrunk in the night as well - the sleeves only came to the middle  
of his forearms, and the hem... he immediately groped for a robe, swinging his long legs out of the  
bed and scooting his feet into slippers that he immediately knew weren't his. He felt an awkward  
binding sensation as the underwear he now wore attempted to adjust to a taller man. As he stood  
up, the bedsprings squeaked a little more loudly than they really needed to.  
  
He looked up as the bedroom door creaked open. His eyes narrowed as he analysed the  
newcomer's silhouette. A guard, he concluded, to judge by the uniform and the pike. On the  
other hand, the style and cut on the uniform rather resembled medieval livery, which conveniently  
threw a small monkey wrench in most of his current theories.  
  
"Sir?" asked the Palace guard, "Are you all-- who are you?!" He levelled his pike at the stranger,  
who looked rather less panicked than would have made the guard comfortable. He looked...  
resolved.  
  
"My name is Sherlock Holmes," said the intruder, "And I must insist that you stop this foolishness  
at once."  
  
"Foolishness?"  
  
"Yes. You are obviously a guard set to watch me, hired by the person in whose dwelling I now  
find myself. The logical conclusion is that I have been kidnapped by a party so far unknown to  
me - though it does not explain why I am wearing someone else's nightclothes and why, for that  
matter, I awoke in such surroundings."  
  
"I don't know anything about any kidnapping," the guard replied sternly, "but for that matter,  
what have you done with the Patrician?"  
  
Holmes only got as far as "I don't kn--" before the guard sounded the alarm and tried to tackle  
him.  
  
The operative word, of course, is "tried." Even with tight underwear, some well-aimed baritsu  
tended to be very effective against an unsuspecting opponent.  
  
So it was that Holmes, trying as best he could to unbind himself [with limited success, of course],  
escaped from the Patrician's bedroom and ran full-force into three more guards just around the  
next corner.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
"If I may sit without you shooting at me?" Mr. Vetinari asked, waving a hand vaguely towards  
the lone chair in the room.  
  
My aim never wavered from him as he, hands upraised to show he was relatively unarmed,  
sidestepped towards the chair, tripped on the hem of Holmes' night-dress, and reached the chair  
with rather less grace than he had probably intended. He used the chair to help pull himself back  
upright, and I thought I heard him murmur someone's name and the word scorpions as he seated  
himself.  
  
"I see you don't believe that I am who I say I am," he observed mildly.  
  
"I don't know that I have any compelling reason to," I replied.  
  
"It probably doesn't help that this Holmes is probably finding out how capable my Palace Guards  
are right now."  
  
"So you *have* kidna--"  
  
"I have done no such thing!" he snapped, cutting through my own conclusion like a horsewhip,  
"If I had, I sure as hell wouldn't come back to the scene wearing his bedclothes. Now for the  
third time, put that thing away before I have to wrestle it away from you. If my own theory is  
correct, I'm your surest bet for getting your friend back."  
  
I lowered my revolver, mainly because my arm was getting tired. "So, somebody wishes to trade  
you for him?"  
  
"After a fashion. I believe that is what happened tonight - we traded places. There is no other  
plausible explanation."  
  
I wasn't at all sure that the explanation he'd offered was plausible, either. "So, what are you  
saying?" I asked slowly, "That this happened by... by magic?"  
  
He looked at me in much the same way Holmes generally did when I'd reached the same  
conclusion he had. "Precisely," he said, "and I expect we may have some rather... unusual  
visitors before this is over."  
  
"But in the meantime," I replied, "Holmes - wherever he is and by whatever means, and I'm not  
conceding that he was whisked away by some sorcery--"  
  
"I suppose I can't expect you to," Mr. Vetinari said coolly.  
  
"Holmes," I repeated, "might have a case to attend to, starting at noon tomorrow."  
  
"'Might'?"  
  
"Our client will be giving us the preliminaries then. That's usually when Holmes decides whether  
or not he should take a case." In the back of my mind, I was wondering why I was telling him all  
this, but right now I was so unhinged from Holmes' unexplained disappearance that I might have  
told my life story to Wiggins and paid him for the privilege.  
  
"Well, then, there is only one solution that I can immediately see," Vetinari said, breaking into my  
train of thought.  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"I must impersonate your friend, at least until such time as he is returned."  
  
The idea was ludicrous, and I said so. He didn't seem very put off by this.  
  
"Well, then," he said calmly, leaning back in the chair and steepling his fingers, "I believe you  
have a bit less than twelve hours in which to find an alternative solution."  
  
There was a long pause in the conversation as I racked my brains for any such thing. As I did, I  
looked thoughtfully at the lean man, who was even now stretching out his legs in a hauntingly  
familiar pose of rather smug relaxation. Shave the beard, give him some properly-fitting clothing,  
add a pipe...  
  
"It might work..." I reluctantly conceded, "But only if our impending guest has never seen  
Holmes before. And if you're quite sure you can keep up the ruse."  
  
"I *am* a politician," he said archly, as though that explained everything.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 2 


	3. Getting Dressed Up, and Getting Dressed ...

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
It was just past dawn when Vimes, Vimes' headache, and a cup of Damn Fine Coffee (tm) came to question the Palace intruder.  
  
Ricocheting off half-plate armour is, obviously, not a hospitable stimulus to lucid thought. Nor, he thought to himself, is living in Ankh-Morpork. The Watch Commander and Duke of Ankh- Morpork(a) looked at the thin man sprawled bonelessly on the narrow cot in the cell, and wondered how and why he had broken into the Palace, gotten into the Patrician's bedroom, and changed into his pyjamas. Well. Stranger things had happened. Just not to the Patrician. Not recently, anyway. Speaking of Vetinari, where the hell had he gotten to?   
  
Vimes, ever the inquiring mind, decided to get some answers from the readiest source.  
  
"Wake up!" he barked.  
  
"Mng?" The suspect raised a hand and rubbed his face. He opened his eyes as he encountered the bruises that naturally come from an unarmoured man trying to force his way through armoured guards at a run. "Where am I?" he added, having gone from concussed confusion to wide awake disorientation in about two seconds.  
  
"You're in jail," Vimes informed him, "You were caught trying to break into the Patrician's Palace. Now what do you have to say for yourself?"  
  
"If it helps, I wasn't breaking *in*," the other man said acidly, "I was trying to get *out*."  
  
"Oh, well, that's different." Vimes barely suppressed an eyeroll.(b) "Look, regardless of which way you were headed, I'll need some information." He consulted the form in his hand, even though he knew the damn thing by heart by now. "Name."  
  
"My name is Sherlock Holmes. I expect you may have heard of me."  
  
"As a matter of fact," Vimes informed him, "I haven't. Home address."  
  
Holmes watched him carefully. "221B Baker Street."  
  
Vimes looked up. "Your *real* address."  
  
"That *is* my real address."  
  
"Listen, I know this whole city like the back of my hand, and I can honestly tell you that there is no such address in Ankh-Morpork."  
  
Holmes sighed. "Of *course* not. I live in London."  
  
"London." Vimes repeated flatly. Of course he gets the delusional ones. All right, if that was how he was going to be... "What is your occupation, then, on 221 Baker Street in London?"  
  
"I am a consulting detective."  
  
"So, you're a policeman."  
  
"I did not say that I was on any police force, now did I?"  
  
"Of course not, Mr. Holmes," Vimes agreed flatly, in the tone people usually reserved for the Bursar of Unseen University.  
  
"I am a private citizen who also works as an amateur consulting detective. The method is simplicity itself... though I don't imagine you would think so."  
  
There was a dangerous pause as Vimes tried valiantly to not throttle Mr. Sherlock Wisearse.  
  
"All right. What have you *detected* so far?"  
  
Holmes sat up on the edge of the cot, rearranging the hem of the nightshirt in a vain attempt to make it cover his knees. "Where would you like me to start?" There wasn't even a particle of sarcasm in his voice.  
  
Vimes decided to challenge him. "Start with me." After all, Holmes had only known Vimes for maybe sixty seconds.  
  
Holmes steepled his fingers in quiet contemplation. "You are a high-ranking official, both as a police officer and perhaps socially as well. I would be very surprised if you were not higher than a Captain. You grew up in a rough neighbourhood, a background which coaxed you towards law enforcement in your early to middle teens, where you have been ever since. You're happily married to a woman of higher status than you - though I'm not implying that her status was your reason for marriage. You are very set in your ways, though you find your everyday routine to be frequently stressful."  
  
There was a pause slightly longer than Vimes would have liked.  
  
"And now," Vimes finally said, "I guess this is the bit where I say something like, 'Good heavens, how did you know all that?' And then you say something mysterious like, 'I have my ways' and look smug."  
  
It was Holmes' turn to look a bit surprised and slightly affronted. "Actually I would have been happy to explain it to you, but it seems you aren't in the mood."  
  
"Between you, me, and the cot, Mr. Holmes, I get enough of that crap from the Patrician."  
  
"I see. Would it surprise you, sir, to learn that you have a very flustered man upstairs, wearing new boots, waiting to see you?"  
  
Vimes paused and listened. After a few moments, he heard the muffled tap-tap-tap of boots, indicating that the feet in them were pacing.  
  
"No," Vimes said, too late to allow him to save face, "I'll be back shortly to continue this."  
  
"By all means," Holmes said, "After all, it seems that I shall be unable to pursue my own duties as long as I am here, and I am curious as to what could be so important as to demand the attention of the Commander of the City Watch."  
  
Vimes, who had been walking away, stopped and whirled to face Holmes. Holmes smiled puckishly and tapped the left side of his chest. Vimes looked at the corresponding region on his own uniform and saw, to his annoyance, the gleaming copper badge that proudly proclaimed his rank and profession. He glared at Holmes, turned back, and stomped away to see what the hell was wrong upstairs.  
  
He found Lord Dunnykins of the Thieves' Guild wearing heel-dents in the floor of his office with the fury of his pacing, and cleared his throat. Dunnykins stopped short and whirled to face Vimes. Dunnykins, true to the overlapping codes of Guildmasters and Thieves, was the sort of popinjay that Vimes always swore he would never let himself become, bedecked in so much finery that he would be the target of the very Guild he headed were he not in fact the head. He made peacocks look conservative.  
  
"It's about damned time you got here!" the Guildmaster snapped, "We have a situation at the Guild."  
  
"So I guessed," Vimes replied as he settled into the chair behind his desk, a chair which by now was so old the seat had worn itself into the exact contours of his posterior. He waved a hand vaguely towards the opposite chair. "Have a seat."  
  
"I'll stand, thank you."  
  
"Sit or I'll have someone seat you. I believe Cpl Bauxite has the privilege this week."  
  
Lord Dunnykins entertained a brief mental picture of the troll in question, and the resulting operation could not be described so much him sitting as his knees trying to flee out from under him. By some miracle he wound up in the proffered chair.  
  
"Now," Vimes said pleasantly, lacing his fingers on the desk in front of him in exaggerated respect, "What sort of a situation do the Thieves have that requires the Watch? A sudden outbreak of amateur muggers?"  
  
"I don't appreciate you making light of this. It's a very serious matter."  
  
"By all means, enlighten me."  
  
"Lightfoot is missing."  
  
Vimes blinked once, slowly. "A mascot?"  
  
Dunnykins' jaw tightened in annoyance. "Nathaniel Lightfoot is one of my most promising students. His parents paid for him to be sent to school in Ankh-Morpork."  
  
"They must be so proud."  
  
"He's *missing*!" Dunnykins insisted. "Nobody's seen him for three days, and students are supposed to report in at least every other day. I've already asked at the Assassin's Guild, and they deny any involvement... but you know how they can be."  
  
"Yes... I am acutely aware of that. If it'll make you happy, perhaps you'd like to take a look at someone we recently caught trying to break into the Palace, and see if he's your Mr. Lightfoot."  
  
At the very least, Vimes thought as he led the Guildmaster downstairs, I might find out who this guy is...  
  
*  
  
(a) who, to the vast annoyance of nearly everyone of noble blood, stubbornly refused to dress like either, because he thought it made him look like a complete idiot.  
(b) the unique talent of not rolling one's eyes when a situation so clearly calls for it was a skill Vimes had carefully cultivated for dealing with Vetinari. Otherwise he would likely have been in the scorpion pit more than he was on patrol.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
The greatest preliminary challenge of that first day was, in my opinion, not only debriefing Mr. Vetinari on some of the well-known quirks and talents of my friend but also enlisting Mrs. Hudson's aid in getting him looking presentable. As stoic as our housekeeper was in the face of such things as round-the-clock visitors and noxious chemical experiments, she certainly did not appreciate being recruited at six in the morning to alter a suit of Holmes' clothing to fit the shorter man.  
  
Vetinari graciously stepped in and coaxed Mrs. Hudson out of throwing her other bedroom slipper at me with a very simple explanation:  
  
"I am a distant cousin of Sherlock Holmes," he lied smoothly, "And I am dismayed to discover that he failed to brief you on the situation beforehand, madam."  
  
"Brief me?" she asked, the slipper still upraised.  
  
Vetinari smiled disarmingly. "He was called away on an emergency and, for various reasons, was forced to leave in the middle of the night. He asked me to stand in for him on this case, hoping that no-one would be the wiser." He spread his hands, still draped in the overlong sleeves of the night-dress. "We have not seen each other since we were schoolboys. A slight miscalculation in our respective appearances would, under the circumstances, be perfectly understandable."  
  
I silently conceded that he might very well be able to pass himself off as Prince Edward if he so chose, let alone Sherlock Holmes. The idea seemed to suit him very well, for reasons that I did not understand at the time.  
  
"Well," said Mrs. Hudson finally as she lowered the slipper, "I do see a bit of a resemblance between you and Mr. Holmes. Mainly about the brow and nose."  
  
"So you will understand why the good doctor has awakened you at such a hellish hour for some emergency tailorwork... just so I'm presentable for this afternoon's interview with his new client."  
  
"Oh, yes, of course. I'm not an expert seamstress, you understand, but I can take up a few hems for you."  
  
For some reason Mrs. Hudson's statement about her skills as a seamstress made Vetinari clear his throat oddly, but I decided to let it pass without comment.  
  
"Come, Watson," Vetinari said suddenly to me, "Let us give the lady the opportunity to get dressed before she begins her work."  
  
As we ascended back to the rooms I ordinarily shared with Holmes, I turned to the glib liar I had found myself watching over.  
  
"Yes?" he prompted as I looked for a polite way to phrase the question.  
  
"Is this a normal part of your daily activities?" I asked finally.  
  
"Not as such," he said, "But one must learn to adapt to a given situation. As long as Mrs. Hudson does not know the whole truth, she will not have to play a role."  
  
"A role?"  
  
"As far as she knows, what I have told her is the truth. Therefore, if she maintains the farce, she will not be lying. I suggest limiting our circle of trust in this matter, if Mr. Holmes is as famous as you imply. Back where I come from, the underworld virtually polices itself... but beyond that there is one man in particular who polices everyone else. I think that if he ever retired, a lot of clandestine circles would be made very happy. Your friend Holmes sounds a lot like him."  
  
"Oh," I said, "He's a friend of yours, then?"  
  
"He's a city employee. His wages come out of the Palace coffers, but beyond that we barely tolerate each other."  
  
"Oh." There wasn't much I could say in response to that.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 3 


	4. Stress and Seamstress

Disclaimer: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
Well, thought Vimes, there went that theory.  
  
Lord Dunnykins not only denied that the man calling himself Holmes was a cardholding  
Guildsman, but he declared that he would be too gangly and awkward to be a true thief.  
  
Holmes accepted all the snide comments with alarming placidity, then launched his counterattack.  
  
"So, how long have you been courting her?" he asked brightly, the question coming apparently  
from nowhere.  
  
Dunnykins blinked. "Courting?" he asked, with entirely too much innocence, "Courting whom?"  
  
"Yes," Holmes replied coolly, "A young lady with long blond hair who favours perfume scented  
with jasmine and lavender, with whom you occasionally spend the evening drinking brandy (and in  
fact did so last night), and on whom you have placed such favour as to give her one of your rings  
as a token of your esteem."  
  
Dunnykins sputtered, turned several shades of red, and finally turned to Vimes.  
  
"I want Lightfoot found! I will not accept failure!" The Guildmaster's voice had jumped half an  
octave since the last time he spoke, Vimes noticed with pokerfaced satisfaction as Dunnykins  
flounced out. After the footsteps faded, Vimes turned back to Holmes and opened his mouth.  
  
"I suppose you didn't noticed that he smelt of both perfume and brandy," Holmes remarked  
before Vimes could say anything, "nor that he had a few blond hairs clinging to his sleeve, nor  
that there was a shadow on one of his fingers where a ring had been."  
  
Vimes shut his mouth. There was a long pause.  
  
"I bet you enjoyed that," Vimes said finally.  
  
"Under the circumstances, yes," Holmes replied, "Ordinarily I would not do that."  
  
"Then again, Dunnykins is a prick to everyone."  
  
"So I gathered. By the way, his problem seems to be an intriguing one." Holmes leaned on the  
crossbar of the cell door, examining his nails as though expecting Vimes to say something further.  
  
"So you think you can find Lightfoot?" Vimes ventured.  
  
"Missing persons are not the most difficult cases I've handled."  
  
"Within his timeframe?"  
  
"What timeframe would that be?" Holmes finally looked up.  
  
"He'll probably want him found by yesterday."  
  
"Ah, yes. One of those."  
  
"Of course, you will be working *with* the Watch, not independently," Vimes added, just to  
make sure Holmes knew he was going to be kept on a leash until Vimes discovered his role - if  
any - in Vetinari's disappearance.  
  
"Well, as long as I'm working with the Watch," Holmes replied, "I should like the Watch to work  
with me as well."  
  
"How do you mean?" Vimes asked cautiously.  
  
"Clothing. I cannot conduct an investigation in a nightshirt." He didn't need to mention the  
underwear.  
  
Vimes had an evil thought. He grinned, a sure warning sign to anyone who knew him. "We can  
get a Seamstress here within the hour, if you'd like."  
  
"I would prefer a tailor... but I suppose a seamstress will have to do."  
  
"You won't be disappointed, Mr. Holmes. The Seamstresses of Ankh-Morpork are world-  
renowned for their talents."  
  
Vimes' mood had significantly improved as he returned to his office to compose a brief note to  
Mrs. Palm.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
A few hours later I found myself breakfasting with a slightly shorter approximation of Holmes,  
thanks to Mrs. Hudson's last-minute tailoring. However, she had refused to alter any of Holmes'  
beloved dressing-gowns, so the one Vetinari wore as he ate had the sleeves tidily rolled up, while  
the hem puddled on the floor about his feet. The subject of footwear had yet to be addressed.   
Vetinari ate with the delicacy of a cat, with the odd habit of not starting his meal until I had  
chewed and swallowed my first bite of food. Holmes had, of course, taught me well in the  
observation of another's mannerisms, and it seemed to me that Vetinari was either a gourmet of  
all the senses or a deeply suspicious man.  
  
"It is one of my own quirks," he explained cursorily when I asked him about his minute culinary  
observation, "Considering those of your friend, I should not think you would pay undue attention  
to any of mine." He looked at me so keenly that I felt the subject was rather irrevocably closed.  
  
This is not to say that he was a particularly unpleasant man over breakfast. His overall manner  
was as polite as his unusual circumstances allowed, and he had the exquisite table manners of  
someone who was dining with the Queen rather than a retired army physician. I became so at  
ease in his company that I decided to broach one relatively minor detail of his appearance.  
  
"I expect you'll shave after breakfast, then?" I half-asked, half-reminded him.  
  
His expression sharpened. "Shave?" he echoed, a forkful of eggs pausing halfway to his mouth.   
He made it sound as though I had ordered him to shave his head rather than his goatee.  
  
"Yes," I said, "Holmes tends to be fastidious about his appearance... and cleanshaven."  
  
He looked at me so hard for so long without blinking that I became distinctly uncomfortable.   
However, I did not recant, if that was his intention.  
  
"This was your idea, Mr. Vetinari..." I began.  
  
"Do I look untidy to you?" It was a challenge.  
  
"No, not at all, just... not quite like Holmes."  
  
"Well," he said, stuffing the bite of egg into his mouth, "I am not Holmes."  
  
"You're supposed to be him!" I protested.  
  
"No. I am *supposed* to be a distant cousin of his, pretending to be him. There is a difference."  
  
"And with me being your only source of information about him, I should think you'd listen to my  
advice," I huffed.  
  
"This is why I abhor advisors," he murmured, rubbing his forehead, then added aloud, "You said  
your friend was also a dabbler in makeup and disguises. Any aberrations in my appearance can  
easily be explained away by this habit. If all else fails, I am a distant cousin. Do you understand?"  
  
I was, understandably, alarmed with the speed at which his pleasant demeanour had evaporated in  
the face of the issue of his appearance. "So," I said slowly, "The beard is not negotiable?"  
  
"Absolutely not. I would rather look like myself when I am returned to Ankh-Morpork than be  
killed by my own staff, taken for a poor imposter."  
  
I looked for any signs that he might have been exaggerating. I found none.  
  
"I have enough issues to deal with when I look as I should," he concluded, and the goatee became  
another untouchable subject; whether it was for genuine concerns for his own safety or more  
spurious ones of vanity I could not readily tell. I amended my opinion of him to include  
moodiness.  
  
I sighed. It was still four hours before the case began, and already I had managed to become very  
irritated with the man.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
"You must be joking," Holmes decreed flatly.  
  
He stood in Vimes' quarters in Pseudopolis Yard, the privacy of which Vimes had graciously  
offered him so the Seamstress could do her job properly.  
  
As soon as Roxanne strolled in, Holmes knew something was horribly amiss, and somehow it was  
Vimes' fault.  
  
"You're the seamstress Vimes sent for?" Holmes asked of the young woman, clad in red only  
according to a certain liberal definition of "clad". There were certain traits that Holmes tended to  
expect in a reputable seamstress, such as conservative dress, a soft-spoken demeanour, and at the  
very least a tape measure. He did not expect spike heels that looked as though they could be used  
as weapons(a), plainly visible stockings that looked as though they were recycled from fishnets(b),  
and hair styled such that it looked as though a poodle had exploded on her head(c). Overall, it  
looked as though, if she had any talent with a tape measure, it was the sort of talent that he did  
not care to explore.  
  
"Of course I am, hon," Roxanne informed him cheerfully as he pulled the bathrobe (borrowed  
from Carrot, the only human anywhere near Holmes' height) tighter around himself like it was a  
suit of terrycloth armour. "What else could I be, in this uniform?"  
  
Holmes, ever the gentleman, elected not to answer.  
  
"Vimesy said in his note that this was your first time working with our esteemed Guild," she  
continued, heedless, "so let me just give you a run-down of the services we offer--"  
  
"No need," Holmes interrupted tersely, "I know precisely what I want."  
  
"Ohhh, the take-charge type. Pretty rare for a first-timer."  
  
Holmes set his jaw against the onslaught of innuendo. "I would like a suit of clothing, in a  
conservative style or whatever passes for it in this city, including shoes or boots, and all the...  
foundations."  
  
"Foundations?"  
  
"Underthings." The word came out reluctantly, like a shy child entreated to give Auntie May a  
great big kiss.  
  
Roxanne looked at him askance. "Oh, you want *that* kind of Seamstress."  
  
"And what other sort is there?" asked Holmes, in his patented asking-a-question-to-which-the-  
answer-is-already-blindingly-obvious tone of voice. "The way I see it, madam, either there has  
been a gross misunderstanding, or someone is attempting to play a prank on both of us."  
  
Roxanne pursed her painted lips in annoyance. "I should say so. Excuse me." She returned to  
the doorway, moving in a way that made Holmes feel vaguely seasick, and leaned out into the  
hallway. "VIIIIIIMES!" she yowled.  
  
There was an explosion of laughter from downstairs. Roxanne glanced over her shoulder at  
Holmes.  
  
"Excuse me. Someone's about to lose their testicles - not you," she added as Holmes's knees  
huddled together for mutual comfort, "You've been a good sport about this whole thing, all  
things considered. You've got 'tourist' written all over you, that's your problem."  
  
"Not by choice, madam."  
  
Roxanne giggled. "'Madam.' I like that. You're cute. I'll get you some clothes, toot sweet.   
Don't worry about a thing.  
  
Strangely, Holmes remained thoroughly uncomforted.  
  
*  
  
(a) They frequently were.  
(b) They weren't.  
(c) No poodles were injured in the making of this hairstyle.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 4. 


	5. When Cultures Attack

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
It was round ten when we had our first test of Vetinari's impersonation of my friend, in the form of an unexpected visit from a recent acquaintance of Holmes'. By that time, I had managed to persuade Vetinari to at least mask his goatee, using some nose putty and paint from Holmes' infamous makeup box. At least now he looked less like a rogue and more like an English gentleman.  
  
As usual, our bell rang, and Mrs. Hudson called up the stair that we had a visitor. Thinking it was Holmes' client come early, I gestured for Vetinari to answer the door, which he did.  
  
The next few seconds were a bit confusing, but after reflection I managed to analyse them thus: when Vetinari opened the door, the visitor's first glance mistook him for Holmes (the approximate frame was correct, at least, even if he lacked a few inches), and she greeted him warmly with a hug around his neck. She subsequently realised her mistake (partly due to Vetinari's admirably polite protestations to that effect) and, far from being amused at her blunder, she punched him in the face.  
  
Had our visitor been anyone but Miss Emily Cartwright, I would have been shocked by this behaviour. As it was, I was merely startled, and immediately concerned for the unwitting target of her wrath.  
  
Allow me to explain. Holmes had met Miss Cartwright during his investigations into a string of burglaries in which my own pocket-watch implicated me. Though he refused to admit it and declared the very idea absurd, I theorised through my own observations of the two of them at a soiree afterwards that he was at least intrigued by her, and possibly infatuated, if such an emotion were available to the man. [A/n: This case was recorded by Holmes himself under the title "Such a Simple Case", though one presumes that he never dared show the manuscript to Watson.] During that same gathering, she implicated to me the details of what she had done to an inebriated suitor who had attempted to take liberties with her, a young man whom I had encountered by chance and treated for those same injuries.  
  
Her retaliatory blow for Vetinari's perceived offence, then, was not the open-handed slap of the offended lady, but a punch to the jaw that drove him back a few steps in surprise and would likely leave a bruise. As he held his injured face in one slender hand, he shot me an accusatory glance from the corner of his eye.  
  
"Er," was all I could think of to say.  
  
"Who is this?" Miss Cartwright hissed, pointing at the faux Holmes who, apparently satisfied that he was not in danger of losing any teeth, had turned to face me.  
  
"I should very much prefer to know if I should expect any further encounters with hostile women, as well, Doctor," Vetinari drawled with such infuriating serenity that but for the bruise developing on his jaw and the slight smear where the makeup had been disturbed he might not have been struck at all.  
  
"Miss Cartwright," I said, finally remembering my manners, "This is... a distant cousin of Holmes', who is... filling in for him." Prevarication was not as easy for me as it was for Vetinari, that much was painfully obvious.  
  
"And where is Holmes?" Miss Cartwright demanded.  
  
In a curious feat of human ventriloquism, I opened my mouth to reply in the same instant Vetinari said, "Ankh-Morpork."  
  
Miss Cartwright opened her mouth, then shut it again.  
  
"He was forced to leave very late last night, due to circumstances beyond his control," Vetinari continued, "I expect he would be here if he were able. And certainly" --here he shot a baleful glance in my direction-- "if he had been expecting a visit from you, I would have been sufficiently forewarned. Isn't that right, Dr. Watson?"  
  
I would soon come to learn that he only used my professional title when he was annoyed with me.  
  
"Well, he never told me of it," I said in my defence.  
  
"I had intended to surprise him," Miss Cartwright submitted as evidence.  
  
"Well," Vetinari replied, "If surprise was your intent, then I certainly concede that you achieved it. Only in two professions back home might a young lady have mastered such a ferocious left hook." He rubbed the bruise lightly for emphasis. "If I have an occasion to speak with Mr. Holmes, I will tell him you send your regards."  
  
And with that he turned away and headed back to the study. Hoping to make up for his curiously blunt way of ending a conversation, I offered to see Miss Cartwright out, meanwhile silently resolving to find out what I could about Mr. Havelock Vetinari.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
So far, Holmes' day had gone from abysmal to merely bad. True to her word, Roxanne had secured reasonably-fitting(a) clothing for him, demonstrating an eye for the masculine frame that probably served her well enough in her chosen profession, whether one meant the domestic or exotic sort of Seamstress. However, the resulting outfit was not quite as tailored as Holmes would have preferred. Carrot was the only one tall enough to have donated clothing to the cause, but he was easily twice as broad across the shoulders, which resulted in Holmes looking as though someone had let half the air out of him. Over the shirt (which contained twice as much fabric as Holmes really needed) and trousers (which could, at least, *pretend* to fit, once a belt was added), Holmes also wore one of Carrot's more civilian garments (out of the few he had), a raincoat which, sensing the man beneath was someone other than its owner, promptly settled into untidy wrinkles.  
  
Vimes had just about convinced himself that Holmes was used to his surroundings when there was a knock on his office door.  
  
"Yes?" Vimes said without looking up.  
  
Then Holmes entered, his face bearing such an expression that Vimes' earlier notion shot away like a deflating balloon when you let go of the open end.  
  
"I believe it is due time for me to interview Lord Dunnykins under a more formal setting," Holmes announced.  
  
Vimes looked him up and down. "I see Roxanne got you outfitted well enough."  
  
"You could fit two of me in this shirt. But that isn't my point."  
  
"Okay," Vimes sighed, resting his chin in his hand, "What happened?"  
  
The Commander saw a two-second internal debate rage across Holmes' face. "A... chimpanzee saluted at me and bade me good morning," said the battle's victor.  
  
"Oh. Him. I thought it was something serious."  
  
"You know the creature?"  
  
"That'd be Nobby."  
  
"A... mascot?"  
  
"A corporal. Anything else?"  
  
"No. Maybe. Yes." Something very large lumbered past the office door. It sounded angry. Vimes had a sense of foreboding even before Holmes clarified his nebulous answer. "I fear I may have offended one of the local statuary."  
  
Vimes was almost, but not quite, entirely unprepared for the headache that arrived. "Oh, hell," he said, "You don't have trolls where you come from, do you?"  
  
"Where I come from, trolls are mere myths. A reasonable adult cannot be expected to believe in such hobgoblins."  
  
A very large fist knocked at the office door. Holmes, who did not believe in trolls but did in fact believe in the virtues of self-preservation when a myth is trying to smash one into a very fine paste, flattened himself against the wall to one side of the door. Vimes hoped that his explicit intructions to the trolls to only open the door halfway had finally taken - otherwise Holmes might get a doorknob-inflicted wound at roughly the height where the wall had had to be repeatedly replastered.  
  
"Yes?" Vimes called to his new visitor, his eyes watering at the thought.  
  
The door opened halfway and Detritus poked his huge head in. "Sir." His hand crashed against his helmet in one of his concussive salutes.  
  
"Good morning, Sergeant," said Vimes, "What can I do for you?"  
  
"You seen a skinny little man around here?" Detritus rumbled. From the relative shelter behind the door, Holmes shook his head pointedly at Vimes.  
  
"Not recently, Sergeant. Any reason you're looking for him?"  
  
"He called me a sing'larly ugly statue."  
  
"Ah, I see. Well, I'm sure he didn't mean it. Just ignore him." Vimes doubted Detritus knew what "singularly" meant, but he understood "ugly," and calling a troll a statue was, Vimes supposed, the next worst thing to calling him a rock.  
  
Crash went the troll's hand against his helmet again.  
  
"So I can't smash him, then?"  
  
"You may not smash him. That is an order."  
  
"Alright." Detritus seemed disappointed, and Vimes immediately felt sorry for the first lawbreaker the troll encountered on his rounds.  
  
The door slammed shut so hard that the doorknob inside fell off.  
  
"Sergeant."  
  
"Sir?"  
  
"You forgot to let go of the doorknob again."  
  
"Sorry." The troll lumbered away.  
  
Vimes stood, crossed to the apparently neutered door, and proceeded to open it anyway, tripping the catch with his finger with the ease of someone who has been repeatedly trapped in his office by a combination of strong trolls and weak doorknob fittings.  
  
"Thank you," Holmes deadpanned, though he had looked as though he was going to need new underwear when Detritus opened the door, "I expect you shall provide an escort to take me to see Lord Dunnykins, then?"  
  
Vimes looked at him. "Oh, if you insist. Carrot and Angua are patrolling that way anyway."  
  
"You are referring, of course, to the young man with red hair who spent his youth in a rural area, perhaps helping at a farm, and the young blonde woman who inspires an inordinate amount of respect in your chimpanzee corporal?"  
  
"Oh, you've met them already?"  
  
"Actually, I only know Carrot by the scale of his clothing," Holmes plucked at the outsized shirt, "Which suggest someone with the well-developed torso of a farmer's son, and by the short red hairs left on the collar."  
  
"Just one problem with your deductions," Vimes informed him.  
  
"Yes?"  
  
"It wasn't a farm. It was a mine. His parents were dwarves."  
  
"I see," said Holmes, who didn't.  
  
*  
  
(a) or as reasonable as one might expect when scavenging the Watch laundry for a makeshift wardrobe to fit someone who was mainly angles and straight lines.  
  
*****  
  
::Still Ankh-Morpork::  
  
Ponder stood on the front steps of the Palace, hoping against all evidence to the contrary that his tracking had gone wrong, that he'd made a mistake somewhere. But double-checking only confirmed that it hadn't, and he hadn't.  
  
"Skazz," he said into his pocket omniscope.  
  
"Yo," came Skazz's tinny voice.  
  
"I think we've stepped in it deeper than I first thought."  
  
"How do you figure?"  
  
"I'm in front of the Palace."  
  
There was a cogitative pause, which culminated in two words: "Oh, bugger..."  
  
"Oh bugger is right. We sent the Patrician to Lon-Don."  
  
"So... who did we send to Ankh-Morpork?"  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 5 


	6. A Heinous Birthday Gift

Disclaimer: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
"Mr. Sherlock Holmes?"  
  
A red-haired gentleman now stood in the entryway, wearing the well-tailored but oft-mended clothing of a professional servant, but he wore the patches and repairs with the poise of familial pride, as though they were badges of honour.  
  
"I am he," said Vetinari, rising and offering his hand to the gentleman, who obviously had no inkling of the truth.  
  
Our new client clasped Vetinari's hand. "My name is Sean MacAvoy," he said, getting a slightly odd look on his face as he studied "Holmes."  
  
"Something wrong?" Vetinari asked blandly.  
  
"Probably nothing. I just expected you to be taller, is all."  
  
Vetinari smiled indulgently. "You have no idea how often I hear that. Come. Have a seat and tell me all about this fateful birthday party."  
  
Watching Vetinari slip into his role as Holmes was vaguely unnerving, though I had at least the comfort of knowing that he eschewed my friend's more noxious habits, such as smoking a pipe or conducting chemical experiments - when confronted with Holmes' chemical apparatus, in fact, Vetinari had asked if Holmes was an alchemist on the side. I indicated to him that Holmes was not in the practice of turning lead into gold or any such rubbish, to which he coolly replied that neither were the Guild Alchemists in the fabled Ankh-Morpork he had mentioned earlier. He added, however, that the Alchemists were especially adept at turning gold into less gold, the practical applications of which I failed to understand.  
  
But I digress.  
  
"Three days ago was my daughter Rebecca's eleventh birthday," said Mr. MacAvoy as he folded himself into the proffered chair, his voice flavoured with a slight Irish brogue, "I don't know who would be callous enough to set a bomb at a child's birthday party--"  
  
"That's why you're here," Vetinari interjected, smoothly but firmly, "to find out. Please start at the beginning."  
  
"Well," said the other, a bit taken aback by the interruption but quick to recover, "you have probably already noticed that my family is not native to England, though we've been here for several years. My wife Kathleen and I moved here from Ireland when Rebecca was very small, mainly because Kathleen's parents never approved of me, being a farmer's son, even though I hadn't lived at home for about a year when we wed. But we loved each other and we were determined to work it out, even if we had to move to England to do it.  
  
"We worked hard to make our way here, and we never had very much, just enough to live on. It was only in the past year that I got settled in a good job as a driver for a wealthy family and we were able to save enough to have a proper birthday party for Rebecca, with gifts and everything. It was nothing lavish, but we wanted to make it a special day for her."  
  
"How did you commemorate the day?" Vetinari prompted.  
  
"Well, my employer allowed us to decorate their parlour with balloons and streamers and the like, and Kathleen and I bought gifts. Kathleen baked a cake and decorated it with sugar frosting."  
  
"Was it just the three of you, then, at the party?"  
  
"Mr. Cavitz - my employer - and his wife attended, and Mrs. Morris, the head housekeeper - she thinks the world of Rebecca and I suspect she sneaks her candy every now and then - and Kathleen's brother, Nathan."  
  
"Your wife's brother lives in London, then?" Vetinari asked; to my private horror he pronounced London as though it were two separate words: Lon-Don. Mr. MacAvoy, in his distress, failed to notice, something for which I was quite grateful.  
  
"Not until recently. We met by chance by one of the clubs Mr. Cavitz frequents and he said he'd moved here maybe eight months prior, after his own trade in Ireland collapsed."  
  
"What was his trade up to that point?"  
  
"He kept an apothecary in the country, so the more rural folk didn't have to travel all the way to one of the towns to get their medicine."  
  
"I see. Describe what happened at the party - everything that led up to the incident mentioned in your note." Vetinari was leaning forward slightly at this point, his elbows resting on his knees and his fingers steepled before his impassive lips in what seemed to me a slightly intimidating manner, and from my point of view his profile resembled that of a crow examining a bit of carrion.  
  
"Well," said Mr MacAvoy, "Everything was going quite well at first... the decorations arrived and we put them up, and Rebecca was so excited about the whole thing - you know, it was her first real birthday party - but just as we were about to light the candles on the cake, there was this explosion--"  
  
"Where did it start?" The question was, I thought, rather abrupt.  
  
"Er, in the corner, I think. Nathan got caught in it - he was right over there when it happened."  
  
"What was in that corner?"  
  
Mr MacAvoy looked blankly at Vetinari. "Nothing flammable - just a cluster of helium balloons."  
  
"Hm. The explosion - was it loud?"  
  
"I honestly don't remember, Mr. Holmes. Everything happened so fast - all I remember was this big red fireball in the corner and then everyone was screaming."  
  
By this time I was starting to get annoyed with this line of questioning - of course Mr MacAvoy wouldn't be able to remember any details of such a tragedy. His next question redeemed him slightly.  
  
"Your brother-in-law - is he quite all right?" Vetinari's tone was still rather detached, but now it carried a note of diplomatic sympathy.  
  
"Oh. Um, he survived, if that's what you're asking, but he was burned pretty badly, being right there when it happened. It was a miracle nobody was killed, but I still want to find out what happened."  
  
"And how does Mr Cavitz feel about all this? It was his parlour, after all."  
  
"That's the only odd bit. He yelled at Nathan for lighting a cigarette in the parlour. I mean, the poor man was already in wretched condition, but I don't see what a cigarette has to do with anything."  
  
"Does Mr Cavitz himself smoke?"  
  
"I don't know. I know Mrs Cavitz deplores cigarette smoke, but there were still ashtrays about."  
  
"Thank you, Mr MacAvoy. If you will but leave the address where this incident took place, I shall be sure to look into the matter."  
  
Mr MacAvoy scribbled the address, then looked pained. "I know, sir, that you charge a fee for your services--"  
  
Vetinari waved a hand sharply to cut him off. "If this proves to be other than a regrettable accident, I shall send the bill to the responsible party." I nearly fell out of my chair. Vetinari merely gave me a look of inquisitive benevolence, as though he honestly saw no aberration in this practice. "It would, after all, only be the proper monetary penalty for someone who would attempt to firebomb a child's birthday party, wouldn't you agree, Watson?" Without awaiting my reply (I was too flabbergasted to formulate one anyway), he returned his attention to Mr MacAvoy. "I assure you, Mr MacAvoy, that I will devote all available resources to this case."  
  
Mr MacAvoy was almost delirious with gratitude, pumping Vetinari's hand with such enthusiasm that I feared his shoulder would be dislocated, and bowed several times as he backed towards the door.  
  
I was at least polite enough to wait until MacAvoy had left the front stoop before whirling on Vetinari.  
  
"Have you gone mad?!" I exploded, "Holmes has never billed the perpetrator in any crime with his service fees - no matter how heinous the crime! I can't even be sure that such a debt would be legally enforceable."  
  
He examined his nails. "What would you prefer I do - charge MacAvoy? I'm a politician, not a sadist - I learned at least that much in school."  
  
"And where, pray, does one go to learn to be a politician like yourself?" I had heard that some of the more expensive boarding schools catered to such highbrow snobs as he, but I wasn't prepared for his answer.  
  
"The Assassin Academy," he said, at casually as if he were mentioning Oxford. That rather shut me up on the topic of his past for the rest of the afternoon, for I suddenly had the horrible feeling that this, at least, was the truth.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 6. 


	7. AnkhMorpork Atmosphere, or So Happy to B...

Disclaimer: See Part 1  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
Sherlock Holmes' first formal introduction to the outdoor environment of Ankh-Morpork was, to say the least, memorable.  
  
Natives to the city seldom noticed the Smell, any more than they would have noticed the motion of A'Tuin through space. It pervaded the city so thoroughly that, for all intents and purposes, it *was* the city. Morporkians generally insisted that the city simply had a unique atmosphere, which was true. Very few other cities had a pea soup fog that could actually be collected in a bowl and eaten.  
  
Holmes, on the other hand, being accustomed to the normal sort of fog that doesn't beat you senseless on a muggy day, had stopped short on the front steps of Pseudopolis Yard, turned several shades of green like a surrealist sunset, and doubled over, retching, narrowly missing a bespectacled young wizard who'd had the misfortune to need to speak with someone from the Watch just then.  
  
Once Holmes could speak again, he had demanded to know the origin of the smell, which he compared to a mixture of raw sulphur and putrefied horse droppings, set ablaze. Angua, whose sense of smell had not so much been diminished by as adapted to the unique olfactory cocktail of Ankh-Morpork, had identified it as the Ankh River. Holmes had indicated that the smell seemed to pervade the whole city, and Angua had reassured him that he would get used to it, to which Holmes had replied that such an event was not bloody likely, and furthermore he could feel his nose hairs turning white..  
  
So it was that Holmes was in a bit of a mood when they arrived at the Thieves' Guild. His day was, it seemed, starting to edge back towards abysmal, since by that time he felt as though he was covered in a fine film of Ankh-Morpork. Lord Dunnykins, naturally, didn't help.  
  
"Oh, you again." Dunnykins looked lazily at the uncharacteristically scruffy detective from under the brim of his hat. "Are you here to tell me the colour of my mystery girlfriend's eyes?"   
  
Holmes noted that in his natural environment Lord Dunnykins had the sort of nasal voice which naturally developed from looking down his nose at people. It was, Holmes supposed, designed to intimidate people; he had encountered possessors of such a voice back in London. He'd always thought such people merely sounded whiny, and the nasal I'm-Better-Than-You-So-Just-Get- Used-To-It voice generally grated on his nerves on the best of days. Today, it sounded like Dunnykins was addressing him through his sinuses.  
  
"I am here to investigate the disappearance of Mr. Lightfoot," Holmes said, with the sort of strained courtesy that comes from wearing clothing one does not like, talking to a man one does not like, in a city one has just concluded one does not like.  
  
"Oh my," said Dunnykins, "And here I thought Sir Vimes didn't even care."  
  
"He doesn't," Holmes observed blandly, "But it seems I have nothing better to do myself."  
  
Lord Dunnykins' smugness slid off his face the same way really good dwarf ale (a) slides out of the mug.  
  
"Well then, I suppose I must accommodate you, since Vimes was kind enough to send someone."  
  
"So it seems." Holmes' face stayed as bland as a mayonnaise sandwich.  
  
Carrot was impressed. Previously, only Vimes had attained quite that level of blatant pokerfaced animosity towards any individual. Watching Holmes was like watching a Vimes-ish copper's soul wrapped in the outer shell of a Vetinari.  
  
"First off," Holmes continued, "I shall need a picture of the man, and a complete physical description. Secondly, I need to know where you expected him to be that night."  
  
"Well," Dunnykins drawled, "Every one of the Guild Thieves has a patrol assigned to them every night. Lightfoot's was up Gleam Street, by the Times offices. He was, of course, instructed to avoid the Bucket, not that I think any of the Watch might have disappeared him, but you never know. As for his picture..." He was already rummaging in his desk as he talked, and now surfaced with an iconograph plate, which he offered to Holmes.  
  
Holmes peered at the plate, which depicted the sort of young man that honest citizens instinctively distrusted, despite(b) the open cheeriness displayed in the picture. He had a gold front tooth, but currently Holmes was puzzling over something else.  
  
"What is this?" He held the plate up.  
  
Lord Dunnykins gave Holmes the sort of tired look reserved for the terminally stupid. "It's an iconograph of Lightfoot, you know, hold the box up to your face and click? What, you never seen one of those before?"  
  
"Not in colour. This looks like it was painted."  
  
Dunnykins sighed. "It *was*."  
  
"By whom?" Holmes' natural curiosity was, for the moment, overriding his instant dislike of Dunnykins.  
  
"An imp. Duh."  
  
Holmes' face clouded at the mention of imps. "Very well. I shall start searching for Mr. Lightfoot directly. Good day," he added in a tone indicating that by "good", he meant "the sort in which you have a major industrial accident involving an adjustable spanner and raw sewage." He turned on his heel and went to leave, paused in the open doorway, and turned back to face Dunnykins. "And since you asked, they're blue."  
  
"Blue?" Dunnykins echoed.  
  
"The eyes of your female acquaintance." He left, pausing to nod a polite greeting to someone outside.   
  
After he was gone, the young woman in question (who had long blonde hair and blue eyes, and wore one of Lord Dunnykins' rings on her thumb) peered in. "Is this a bad time?" she asked, seeing Dunnykins' stormy expression.  
  
Outside the Guildhouse, Holmes was still studying the picture Dunnykins had supplied.  
  
"Imps, indeed," he murmured derisively to no one in particular, apparently ignoring his police escort, "Does he think I'm stupid? Imps!"  
  
"Well, they're not exactly the wave of the future anymore," Angua offered, and Holmes looked over at her as though he suddenly remembered that he wasn't walking alone. "Granted, they were amazing when the first of the Agatean models came to Ankh-Morpork, but I think any wizard can summon an imp. It's just a matter of finding the right imp for the right job." She decided to stop right there when she saw Holmes' expression.  
  
"Do you expect me to believe," he said slowly, "that photographs like this one are made by little goblins inside the camera?"  
  
"Not goblins," Carrot corrected him, "Imps."  
  
"And you say you have people here calling themselves wizards, who cast magic and whatnot?"  
  
Carrot and Angua exchanged a worried glance, then nodded.  
  
"Rubbish. I am prepared to accept that there are... certain creatures here not yet documented by English zoologists. Apparently I am in another country, by some means. But I refuse to believe that you actually have such things as wizards, and hobgoblins, and magic. That is utter... superstitious... balderdash, and I will not be made fun of in that way."  
  
The two Watchmen offered him the carefully blank expression usually given to the dangerously insane who would react badly to any sudden movements. Finally Angua spoke.  
  
"You've had a stressful day, Mr. Holmes," she said in the sort of voice that could be said to soothe the savage beast(c), "And you probably didn't get all that much sleep last night. Why don't we just head back to the Watchhouse and get you some hot tea or something?"  
  
Holmes looked at her as though he suspected there was something less than genuine about her offer, but decided that he needed to save his energy for the case ahead.  
  
"Fine," he said, "And maybe afterwards we can have a civilised discussion like sane people."  
  
Carrot and Angua exchanged a hopeful glance past the lean detective.  
  
*  
  
(a) Dwarves rate the quality of ale by the thickness of it. Moderate-quality ale is as thick as treacle [molasses, for those who don't speak British], while the best stuff is actually a sort of gelatin that is served in the form of wobbly amber cubes, arranged in a loose pyramid on a plate. Ale that is merely Really Good has the viscosity of motor oil on a chilly day.  
  
(b) or because of.  
  
(c) at least it worked on barking dogs and Angua's brother.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 7. 


	8. WellTailored For the Job

Disclaimer: See Part 1  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
"I am of the opinion," Vetinari said suddenly at the tailor's, "That setting a firebomb is a remarkably inefficient and unreliable way of killing someone."  
  
The tailor, who had been in the middle of taking measurements when Vetinari decided to share this revelation, hesitated in his work and offered me a worried glance.  
  
"A new case," I explained feebly. The tailor nodded carefully and tentatively resumed his work. Vetinari had washed the makeup from his beard before we'd left, claiming it irritated him, so he was back to looking like a slightly dangerous rogue.  
  
Vetinari was, I had noticed, not so much overbearing as amazingly persuasive. He had, at times, a certain quiet intensity of character that make him seem like the calm before the storm. He could, for example, speak of a topic with almost conspiratorial quietness and still make his voice carry to everyone it concerned, including one or two bystanders to gently remind them of their place in Vetinari's world.   
  
The trip to the tailor's was, of course, his idea, as he insisted on having clothing of his own for the remainder of his "stay" rather than having Mrs Hudson make any further alterations. I agreed, of course, knowing that if and when Holmes returned he might be upset to find that none of his own clothes fit him any longer. Vetinari appeared to prefer bleaker shades, mainly black, which, paired with his naturally fair bordering on unnaturally pale complection, made him look like one of Bram Stoker's nocturnal creations. This conclusion was exacerbated by the long black cloak that he had selected (which had only required a bit of hemming), and only slightly tempered by the fact that the man could walk about in the daytime.  
  
"It certainly sounds like it came close to doing just that," I responded to his remark, "The brother-in-law was nearly killed."  
  
"Burned is not killed, Watson," he said smoothly, with the confidence of an expert on the topic, "and I could think of a dozen more efficient and less flashy ways to go about it. A discreet poison, of course, always works well and, if one knows the proper concentrations, can be disguised as a heart attack or appendicitis." Watching him discuss poisons and murder so blithely, especially in the presence of a third party who might well call the police once we had left, gave me a bit of a chill. "You have no need to worry, of course," he added, probably noticing my queasy expression.  
  
"That's comforting," I lied, and decided the subject was due to be changed. "So what do you plan to do at the Cavitz residence tomorrow?"  
  
"Investigate, of course. Ah, Watson, I expect you will be paying for this? I appear to have left my money-pouch in another universe. I shall see that you are repaid in full." To the tailor he added, "There shall be a modest gratuity if you complete the alterations by four-thirty."  
  
Nettled that Vetinari simply presumed that I would aid him financially (despite the fact that he claimed to be one of the richest men in Ankh-Morpork, wherever that happened to be), I sullenly nodded to avoid a scene.  
  
"Good man. You may be useful yet."  
  
I restrained the urge to throttle him as he wrapped himself in the black cape and prepared to explore the London shopping district.  
  
As we walked home later that afternoon (for the previous night's storm had by then apparently vanished without leaving so much as a gloomy cloud behind) with a modest armload of packages (all Vetinari's but paid for with my coin, as he continued to claim situational poverty), Vetinari expanded on his earlier theory about the bomb.  
  
"A bomb, of course, is the sort of weapon generally used in anger or hatred of the intended target. It makes an exemplary retaliatory device, of course, but bombers tend to be impatient - even the benign ones."  
  
"Benign ones?" He had managed to lose me in the span of four words.  
  
"I believe I mentioned the Alchemists to you?"  
  
"Well, yes..."  
  
"They manage to blow up their Guildhouse once or twice a fortnight in the course of their experiments, mainly because the rush to market an unproven thesis.. They don't mean anything by it, of course, and they always pay the rebuilding costs, and in fact I recall that last week's fireball was rather pretty."  
  
"But who would--" I turned and saw he was no longer keeping pace with me. He had stopped short and was peering intently into an alleyway. I doubled back to see what he was looking at, which, upon investigation, appeared to be absolutely nothing. "What is it?" I asked, finally.  
  
"Probably nothing," he said absently, "And possibly the key to getting everybody home. They're gone now, in any case. Let us get back - it will be dark soon, and I expect Mrs Hudson has dinner ready for us."  
  
Little did I know the state in which we would in fact find our long-suffering housekeeper.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
"Slow down, Mr Stibbons, and start over from the beginning." Vimes hadn't caught much of Ponder's frenetic narrative, but it sounded as though the young wizard was claiming that the Patrician was having relations with a hippopotamus, and that it was somehow the collective fault of the Department of Inadvisably Applied Magic at UU.  
  
Ponder took a deep breath. "Let me just ask you something, Commander... did anyone report anything... unusual last night? Say, around the Palace?"  
  
"Not that I know of. The loonies usually stay inside during a storm."  
  
"So... the Patrician is still in Ankh-Morpork?"  
  
"I didn't say that."  
  
"So he's gone?"  
  
"I didn't say that, either. Look, just spit it out already. I haven't got all day. I have a hysterical secretary in the lobby--"  
  
"Yes, I saw him. Don't worry, he's fainted by now. That was Mr. Drumknott, wasn't it, of the Palace?"  
  
"--*and* I've got a missing Guild Thief to find, *and* I've got the latest candidate for Village Idiot in the back who, for all anybody around here knows, just dropped out of the bloody sky. So just say what you need to say and be done with it."  
  
"I think my department may have accidentally discombolulated two men in two different universes. They aren't where they should be, I mean."  
  
"That sounds like a problem in record-keeping to me," said Vimes.  
  
"And one of them might have been His Lordship, the Patrician."  
  
That finally got Vimes' attention. He hated Vetinari, of course, despite what the rumour mill said (Vimes was a married man, for gods' sake!) but he also respected him, and it was his duty, for better or for worse, to make sure Ankh-Morpork stayed orderly. Removing Vetinari would be like removing a vital piece in a game of bones - you knew from experience that if that piece were suddenly not there, everything was tumble into chaos.  
  
"Now, this village idiot you mentioned earlier...?" Ponder was saying, "You said nobody knows where he came from?"  
  
"Yes, what about it?"  
  
"Where does *he* claim to have come from?"  
  
"Someplace called London."  
  
Ponder's head perked up like a squirrel who has just found an acorn everyone else somehow overlooked.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 8. 


	9. Mrs Hudson's strange tale

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
It took both of us to calm down Mrs. Hudson when we arrived back at Baker Street, though at first I could make no sense of what she was saying. Granted, the staid housekeeper had endured a number of odd events at our humble dwelling, and if she were prone to fits of hysteria they would certainly have manifested themselves by now, but when we found her she was babbling about being accosted by a large orangutan.  
  
Vetinari, with the sort of calm efficiency that would have stood up against the downfall of western civilisation, let alone a terrified housekeeper, guided Mrs Hudson to the guest chair in front of the fire (the one generally used by clients of Holmes') and poured a small amount of brandy into a glass for her.  
  
"Take a deep breath, madam," he said as she downed the brandy and tried to pull herself together, "I can see that you went through a very frightening event while we were out."  
  
"It was awful," she asserted once she had calmed down, "After you'd left - I'd say no more than an hour after - someone rang the bell, and kept on ringing it and ringing it until I opened the door. I thought it was one of the Irregulars, having a bit of fun--"  
  
"Irregulars?" Vetinari interjected.  
  
"Oh, they're a band of street urchins Mr. Holmes uses sometimes on his cases," I explained, trying to be helpful.  
  
"Interesting," Vetinari said, as though it were no more interesting than a crack in the plaster (which, to be fair, Holmes had taught be could be very fascinating indeed). "So, you opened the door...?"  
  
"I opened the door," Mrs Hudson continued, "and standing there on the front step was a strange young man, and a huge red ape like you'd see at the circus!"  
  
Vetinari accepted this description with alarming matter-of-factness.  
  
"What did the young man look like?" was all he asked.  
  
"Er, he was a bit shorter than Dr. Watson, maybe twenty years old or so, and he was dressed in some sort of a robe, all different colours in it like a kaleidoscope, and he had purple hair!"  
  
"Purple!" I echoed, now certain that Mrs. Hudson needed to lie down.  
  
"Purple," she confirmed, "And not purple like he'd painted it, purple like it grew out of his head purple. And it was all in spikes like a hedgehog!"  
  
I turned to Vetinari. "Really, I think she needs to rest--"  
  
He held his hand up to silence me. "In a moment, Watson," he said sharply, then asked of Mrs. Hudson, "Did he say anything to you?"  
  
"Not right away, no," she replied, "But they both barged in with out so much as a by-your-leave like they owned the place, and they looked like they were looking for something."  
  
"I expect you followed them."  
  
"Well, of course I followed them! I didn't want some carny worker and an orangutan tracking all over the place!"  
  
Vetinari turned to me with a smile. "You see, Watson? We could ask for no more ferocious guardian than this brave woman sitting here, if she was willing to attack an orangutan to keep her floors clean." To Mrs Hudson he added, "Pray continue."  
  
Mrs Hudson, slightly emboldened, I suppose, by Vetinari's affirmation of her sanity and her defensive capabilities, sat up a bit straighter. "Well, I charged right up the stairs after them, and I entered the study to find the young man standing right in the middle of the room - just there - with his arms out and his eyes closed, and he was turning around slowly like a weathervane while his pet orangutan watched him, and I noticed this odd smell, like how the air gets before lightning strikes." Vetinari nodded and motioned for her to continue. "Then all of a sudden he stopped and opened his eyes, and took out his pocket-watch and talked into it."  
  
"Did you hear what he said?" Vetinari prompted.  
  
"I did - he said, 'No go, mate, this is the place all right but he's not here anymore.' He sounded Australian. But then, as God is my witness, *the pocket-watch talked back to him!*" She looked so heartfelt at this detail that I glanced at Vetinari to see what his reaction was. Not surprisingly, he had no observable reaction at all.  
  
"And what did the pocket-watch say to him?" Vetinari asked.  
  
"It said something like, 'Keep looking and report back as soon as you find him.'  
  
"'No worries,' said the man with the purple hair, 'I feel sorry for you, though - this is really going to get up Mr. Vimes' nose, you know that.' And then the man with the purple hair shut the watch again and headed for the door, nodding at me like nothing in the world was wrong, so naturally I seized him by the arm and asked him what that was all about. He just looked at me for a few moments, with a look on his face like he just bit into a lemon, and then he said, 'I'm not sure if this concerns you, ma'am. Did you see anything unusual happen around here last night?'  
  
"I told him no, except for that lightning strike at Big Ben. And he said he knew about that because he was right there, and had I seen a certain gentleman of his acquaintance which, to hear the description, might have been you, Mr. Vetinari. Well, I figured that if Mr. Holmes wanted you here to fill in for him, then it was nobody's business that it was really you and not him, so I told him that nobody like that lived there, and could he take his monkey and leave."  
  
I noted that Vetinari flinched a bit when she said "monkey," in the same way people may regard someone speaking ill of someone else who turns out to be standing right behind them.  
  
"And that ape of his gave me a reproachful look like it didn't like what I'd said," Mrs Hudson concluded, oblivious to Vetinari's expression, "which is silly of course, but they both left peacefully."  
  
"Thank you, Mrs. Hudson," said Vetinari, "I think you have earned yourself the remainder of the day off. Watson and I shall fend for ourselves for dinner."  
  
Mrs Hudson stood up and headed for the door, then paused and turned back.  
  
"What should I do if they come back?" she asked.  
  
"If Watson and I aren't here, you tell them to wait for me until I return - and that I want to talk to Ponder Stibbons as soon as he can arrange it." Something glinted in his eye that boded very ill for this Ponder Stibbons, whomever that might be. I suspected it might be a pseudonym.  
  
"You know these people?" I asked of Vetinari after Mrs Hudson had left.  
  
"Of course," he said, "After all, they're the likeliest reason I'm even here."  
  
"So, the young man with purple hair, and the orangutan...?"  
  
"Both are quite real. In fact, I do hope Mrs Hudson doesn't refer to the orangutan as a monkey again. He's quite picky about that."  
  
I was starting to feel like I'd fallen down a rabbit hole and found myself surrounded by madmen. To judge by what Vetinari had told me about Ankh-Morpork, I could only imagine what Holmes was going through.  
  
*****  
  
End Part 9. 


	10. Deduce This

Disclaimer: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
Ponder entered the workroom that Vimes had indicated was currently occupied by the "village idiot," and found a tall man engaged in oddly platonic discourse with what was obviously a Seamstress - something which immediately pegged the stranger as a relative newcomer to Ankh- Morpork. He was tall - Ponder estimated about six-foot-six or seven, at least - and he was thin in a way that put Ponder in mind of a scarecrow or, to put the same idea another way, Rincewind. In other words, he gangled - and the fact that he was currently wearing clothing better suited for the ungangly indicated to Ponder that whenever he'd arrived, he'd left all his luggage back in Lon-Don.  
  
"So, you're saying that Cpl Nobbs is... human?" asked Sherlock Holmes of Roxanne.  
  
"By default, really," she replied, "It's none of *our* concern, though."  
  
"Why is that?"  
  
"Lifetime ban from the Guild. Nobody really wants to touch him... that way. I mean he's sweet in his own way, but--"  
  
Ponder cleared his throat. "Excuse me, sir."  
  
Holmes looked at him. "May I help you?"  
  
"Vimes told me I could find you in here. You're the London gent, right?"  
  
Holmes looked at him askance. "Who's asking?"  
  
Ponder put out his hand. "Professor Ponder Stibbons, Unseen University." He hesitated. "Well, student professor, really. I don't have my doctorate yet."  
  
Holmes shook his hand. "Okay...?"  
  
"I think my department has figured out what happened between here and London."  
  
Just then, what appeared to be a dwarvish drag queen tromped into the room.  
  
"Who's that?" Holmes asked Roxanne, sotto voce.  
  
"That's Cheery Littlebottom, the local forensic department." She paused. "She's a dwarf."  
  
"Do all dwarves look like that?"  
  
"I believe that would be an emphatic no."  
  
"Good."  
  
"Excuse me sir--" Ponder began, but Littlebottom had already approached Holmes, the light glinting off her hoop earrings.  
  
"You're on the Lightfoot investigation?" she asked the detective, nearly giving herself whiplash trying to look him in the face.  
  
"I am," Holmes replied, trying not to look bewildered. Littlebottom was one of the few female dwarves who openly flaunted her gender, wearing makeup, earrings, and high-heeled ironshod boots on a regular basis. She also curled her beard.  
  
"Ah, so you're the 'damn idiot' of the day. Don't worry, I'm sure Mr. Vimes doesn't mean anything by it. Anyway, I just thought you'd like to know that a patrol found Lightfoot about fifteen minutes ago."  
  
"Dead or alive?" Holmes asked.  
  
Littlebottom considered the question for a bit longer than Holmes thought was necessary. "Well," she finally said, "I really think you should come see for yourself."  
  
"Why? Is he in the infirmary?"  
  
"No - he's still in the alley where we found him. I really think you should see this."  
  
Holmes sighed. "If you insist."  
  
"Excuse me, sir--"  
  
"If you need to talk to me, you can talk on the way over," Holmes barked at Ponder.  
  
"Yessir," Ponder grumbled, "Er, before we go--"  
  
"What!"  
  
"I just wanted to explain to you how we think you wound up here."  
  
"We?"  
  
"The lads and I. Now, this may be a little difficult for you to understand, coming as you do from a place where wizards are less commonplace--"  
  
Holmes sighed impatiently. "You said you were an educated man, Stibbons."  
  
"I *am* educated - in magic!"  
  
"That I will not believe until I see proof of such a phenomena!" Holmes announced, confident that this was an argument he would win.  
  
Ponder straightened up indignantly, looking a little like a nerdy cobra preparing to be slightly unpleasant at someone. Telling someone he was a poor excuse for a wizard was one thing, and in fact he had become almost immune to the jabs of the older wizards at UU - but to tell someone that his entire trade didn't exist... well! Even Ponder had his ego.  
  
"Brace yourself, sir," he said, smiling as he cracked his knuckles.  
  
Holmes heard the sound of rushing feet, all belonging to those on the Watch who knew better than to insult a wizard - or to stay very near someone who did(a). By the time he looked around, everyone else in the room was pressed against the far wall.  
  
He looked back at Ponder just as the spell went off. The unknown forces caused him to rock back on his heels, then stagger back a few steps as he felt a not so much unpleasant as wholly *unfamiliar* sensation crawling all over him. He looked down at himself to see that the crawling sensation was seeing his borrowed clothing, reconfiguring itself.  
  
"The Department of Inadvisably Applied Magic - of which I'm the head - has, of course, studied your home city from here," Ponder said, from approximately fifteen thousand miles away, "I'm not really malicious, even to pompous twits like you've turned out to be. You might find your new costume a bit more familiar."  
  
It would have been more familiar, of course, had Holmes not watched a set of braces [a/n: British suspenders] sprout from the waistband of the trousers and felt the back of the shirt spawn a gray waistcoat, apparently from the extra fabric left over when the shirt tailored itself to fit him a bit better. By the time the spell finished, he was dressed in what was perfectly normal clothing for London (though frightfully drab for Ankh-Morpork).  
  
"Better?" Ponder queried.  
  
Holmes stared at his transformed clothing for a full minute before he apparently regained enough strength in his neck to gape at Ponder. The young wizard merely tucked his hands into the pockets of his robes and smiled benignly at Holmes.  
  
"No, go ahead," Ponder said, "I think you were just saying something funny a few moments ago - oh hell, somebody catch him, please, I think he's gone into shock."  
  
Nobody did, and Holmes hit the floor like someone had cut his strings.  
  
*  
(a) It was like seeing someone telling off the Patrician, or watching a seventeen-cart wreck piling up on Broad Way - you wanted to get far enough away to disassociate yourself as a possible cause, but at the same time you wanted to see how everything turned out.  
*****  
  
End Part 10. 


	11. The Gilt Thief

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Still Ankh-Morpork, only a bit later::  
  
Holmes returned to his senses about fifteen minutes later, which coincidentally was the same moment Cheery announced her belief that he might need the Kiss of Life. Some social survival instinct wrenched him back to full alertness so quickly that he was certain he'd sprained his cerebral cortex. Cheery also shared her opinion that Holmes looked rather more dapper now than he did before - the waistcoat helped; the rumpled raincoat didn't. Holmes gave her an appraising glance but otherwise declined to respond as he shrugged into the only overcoat he currently had.  
  
Another half hour hence, Holmes, Ponder, and their police escort found themselves at the entrance to what was currently the most heavily guarded alley in Ankh-Morpork. It was filled wall-to-wall and end-to-end with Watch dwarves (a), who were quite naturally guarding the only other item of note.  
  
It was a gold statue.  
  
Now, dwarves have a natural instinct for finding gold in any quantity, a skill that generally was wasted in Ankh-Morpork due to the local economy. The first dwarf, it is said, who heard about the golden Ankh-Morpork dollar laughed so hard upon seeing the real currency that he'd had to be carried out of the city on a stretcher.  
  
It made sense, then, that a dwarf patrol was the first to find this treasure, and of course everybody wanted to make sure nobody stole it from them.  
  
Holmes regarded the crowd and the statue for several moments, then consulted the iconograph plate that Dunnykins had given him.  
  
"It appears that someone has gone to a great deal of trouble to make this statue," he concluded, "But why?"  
  
"Is it this Lightfoot person you're looking for?" asked Ponder.  
  
"It appears to be his likeness - I won't be able to tell any more than that unless I can get closer." He glanced down at the front row of dwarves, who tightened its collective grip on its weaponry and silently dared him to try. He glanced down at Cheery. "Miss Littlebottom, have you any suggestions?"  
  
She pursed her lips, then cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted something in Dwarvish which caused a remarkable chain reaction. By a curious sort of armoured Brownian motion that resembled a colony of bumper cars, the dwarves immediately between Holmes and the statue parted, crushing themselves and each other against the alley walls. Not even a toe or a weapon handle protruded into the new furrow.  
  
"What did you say to them?" Ponder whispered to Cheery as Holmes started forward.  
  
"I told them that whomever was still standing between us and that statue after five seconds would be charged with obstruction," she replied.  
  
"What's the usual punishment for obstruction?"  
  
"They get a great big kiss from me," Cheery grinned evilly.  
  
"Oh," Ponder squeaked.  
  
"I think you both should come see this," Holmes said from halfway down the alleyway, unwittingly saving Ponder from an awkward conversation.   
  
They joined him just as he was questioning one of the dwarves.  
  
"Has anyone tried to lift this statue?" he was asking.  
  
"This is Ankh-Morpork," replied the dwarf, "I expect everyone's tried to lift it. It's solid gold, you know."  
  
Holmes looked at him. "How do you know it's solid gold?"  
  
The dwarf looked at him sideways. "Dwarves can tell these things, don't you know that?"  
  
"He's new here," said Cheery pointedly.  
  
"If this statue is solid gold, it must weigh a quarter ton, at least," Holmes said, "So now did it get here? And feel that - the clothes are supple, like cloth." He pinched part of the sleeve to demonstrate, then ran his fingers along another scrap of the golden cloth that was clenched in the statue's rigid grasp. "I can't honestly say that I've ever seen anything quite like this... Why make a statue of this detail and then drop it in an alley?"  
  
"I have a theory," said Ponder, who tried to dramatise the moment by stepping forward but instead caught his toe in a pothole and stumbled. Holmes caught his arm and hauled him back to his feet.  
  
"Well, what's your theory?" Holmes asked him.  
  
"I don't think Lightfoot has precisely... disappeared."  
  
"What are you saying - that Lightfoot's been turned into a gold statue?"  
  
"Do you have a better theory?"  
  
"When you have eliminated the impossible..." Holmes murmured, "Of course, the real question now is, what's impossible around here?" He turned to Cheery. "Miss Littlebottom, I want this area cleared. Arrange to have the statue transported back to the Watchhouse - maximum security - until I can figure this out. As it is, any evidence has probably been trampled to illegibility" - he glared at the dwarves, who stubbornly refused to look at all conciliatory - "But I'll have to make do with whatever I can find."  
  
Nobody moved. Holmes bristled.  
  
"Please," he added, with the sort of exaggerated calm that generally denoted a bad case of ruffled feathers.  
  
*  
  
(a) about three across and twenty-seven deep, in other words.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 11. 


	12. Playing With Sharp Minds

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
I came downstairs around seven the following morning, after a poor night's sleep fraught with  
  
nightmares about orangutans. One dream that still remains clear in my memory had a gigantic  
  
orangutan kidnap Mrs Hudson and climb Big Ben with her clutched in its paw. It was grinning  
  
like the Cheshire cat.  
  
Vetinari was, to my surprise, already up and about, leafing idly through one of Holmes' carefully  
  
compiled reference books. A stack of other assorted volumes indicated that he'd been in the  
  
study for some time. He was clad as before in one of Holmes' dressing-gowns and a pair of his  
  
slippers - but he had a quiet dignity about him that refused to let him look ridiculous in the  
  
outsized clothing this morning.  
  
"Good morning, Watson," he said without looking up; until that moment I'd thought that he was  
  
thoroughly absorbed in the book and I'd resolved not to disturb his studies. When he finally did  
  
look up, I saw none of the usual symptoms of sleeplessness, and he'd even taken the time to wash  
  
up, comb his hair, and trim his goatee. If I didn't know better, I'd say he'd never gone to bed to  
  
begin with - but of course checking to see if Holmes' bed had been slept in would probably be an  
  
exercise in futility.  
  
"Good morning," I replied, "Did you sleep well?"  
  
"As well as usual. We'll be going to the Cavitz residence after breakfast." It sounded less like a  
  
suggestion open to discussion than a decree to be carried out without question. "Once there, we  
  
will investigate the scene of the incident and, in general, see if there is anything there worth  
  
seeing."  
  
"Do you think you'll be able to figure out who set the bomb, and why?"  
  
"Let me put it this way," he said, marking his page and closing the book, "One does not get to the  
  
position I have achieved without making a number of enemies." He smiled thinly. "And one does  
  
not *stay* in such a position without knowing how the darker elements work. Then again...  
  
Ankh-Morpork certainly has no shortage of darker elements." He opened the book again. "I  
  
probably had tea with half of them last week alone."  
  
"I should think you'd be more worried about that, if you're so certain about it," I said.  
  
"Better the sausage-seller you know," he said, rather opaquely I thought, then added, "Of course  
  
I won't be able to form any theories until I meet the other players in this. But let us set the matter  
  
aside for now... I believe I hear our breakfast coming up the stairs now."  
  
Moments later, Mrs Hudson entered with the breakfast-tray, along with an oblong bundle  
  
wrapped in a cloth napkin. The latter she handed to Vetinari, an expression of baffled concern on  
  
her face.  
  
"Thank you, Mrs Hudson," Vetinari said, "I promise I'll return these in good condition."  
  
"If you say so," she said, clearly ill at ease, "Just don't do anything foolish. Mr Holmes never  
  
carried--"  
  
"They are a precaution, nothing more. You have no need to worry - I am not known for my  
  
recklessness."  
  
"What was that all about?" I asked after Mrs. Hudson had left, "And what, more importantly, is in  
  
that bundle?"  
  
"I consider it my business to be intimately familiar with all the hazards in a given environment," he  
  
replied, punctuating this statement with a sip of orange juice before adding, "And I pride myself  
  
on being prepared for unknowns. They are a security measure, nothing more." He laid his hand  
  
on the bundle as I glanced over at it, anticipating my intent to unwrap it. I glanced back at him  
  
and he met me with a steely gaze that translated to something like: "This is my business. It will  
  
not be your business until I choose to make it your business. Don't force me to make it your  
  
business." Aloud, he said, "You may wish to get some breakfast into you, Doctor. This may be a  
  
very busy day."  
  
Mrs Hudson's ham and eggs, usually a welcome breakfast before the sort of busy day usually to  
  
be had around here, sat like lead in my stomach - at least what quantity I managed to choke past  
  
my departed appetite.  
  
*****  
  
End Part 12. 


	13. The Investigation begins

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Still London::  
  
The cab over to the Cavitz residence was quite silent. I dared not ask what Vetinari had done with the bundle, nor did I feel I would be comforted if I knew. He, on the other hand, had reapplied the makeup to mask his beard for the investigation (at least he was consistent in that!) and, as he had taken the bundle with him into the next room to finish getting dressed, I could only assume that it or its contents were somewhere about his person.  
  
He, meanwhile, stared rather intently out the window at the passing scenery, as though trying to memorise the route or his surroundings for later retrieval. For all the attention he paid me he might as well have been alone in the cab. I was used to silent cab rides - I was not used to being apprehensive of the man in the cab with me.  
  
So it was with great relief on my part that we soon arrived at the Cavitz residence, a stately old manor of no great pretension. Two of the windows in the front had been thrown open, though nobody appeared to be in the room within - presumably this was the parlour, still being aired out from the explosion.  
  
Mr MacAvoy greeted us as we approached the front door.  
  
"Good morning!" he said, "I didn't expect you to start so soon - I only told the Cavitzes I'd hired you just last night."  
  
"I expect they will welcome any aid we can provide," Vetinari said blandly as Mr MacAvoy showed us in, "After all, it is not every day one's parlour explodes during a birthday party - and this must be the charming Mrs MacAvoy. Good morning to you, madam, my name is Sherlock Holmes. Your husband requested my aid in investigating the unfortunate incident at your daughter's birthday party."  
  
I mentally scrambled to keep up with the change of subject, wondering how he could go from speaking of bombs to greeting new acquaintances so abruptly. Vetinari clasped the hand of the lady in question, a raven-haired beauty in the standard uniform of a housekeeper, with every ounce of respect, in much the same way he'd greeted Mrs Hudson. I wondered idly if Vetinari's propensity for reflexive diplomacy might cause problems for the real Sherlock Holmes later on - Mrs MacAvoy was blushing at Vetinari's charm - but that was a matter best left till later.  
  
"And this," he continued, finally including me, "is Dr Watson, whom Mr MacAvoy has already met. He will be aiding in the investigation."  
  
I murmured a greeting as Vetinari darted off towards the parlour; I'm afraid I had to be a bit abrupt with Mrs MacAvoy in order to keep an eye on him.  
  
When I caught up with him he was surveying the scene, standing in the middle of the room with his slender hands clasped behind his back like he was looking at a painting. Mr MacAvoy was there with him, describing where everything had been. As I drew level with Vetinari, I noticed that his gaze was fixed on one corner of the room, to the left of the windows and near the ceiling, where I observed some of the paint had been scorched, presumably by the explosion. The curtain rod nearest the site was also bare of any drapery. The curtains of the adjacent window appeared to be scorched as well, but not severely damaged.  
  
"If I may interrupt," Vetinari said, inclining his head towards the corner in question, "Is that where the fireball originated?"  
  
"Yes, right over there," MacAvoy confirmed, "And Nathan was standing right there, in front of the window." He indicated the bare window.  
  
"Was the window open or shut at the time?"  
  
"Well, it had been shut, but like I said Mrs Cavitz doesn't like cigarette smoke so he opened the window before lighting up."  
  
Vetinari strolled over to the area and examined it minutely, pacing the area of scalded paint from one side to the other, then examining the ceiling.  
  
"And was any device found afterwards?" he asked, "Anything at all in this area? Shrapnel or the like?"  
  
"Nothing - just bits of rubber from the balloons. Mr Holmes, what sort of person would do something like this? I mean, Rebecca is utterly terrified to come in here anymore, and Kathleen has been on edge since it happened..."  
  
"Understandably so... if the blast were any larger it could very well have killed someone." As he spoke, he poked at the scorched paint with a finger. "Who indeed would set an explosive at a child's birthday party? Watson, come take a look at this, please."  
  
I joined Vetinari at the site and obediently examined the area. "What do you see?" I asked.  
  
"The question is not what I see," he replied, "It is what I don't see."  
  
I looked closer, realising the absurdity of looking for the absence of something.  
  
"Shrapnel," he finally supplied, "Pock marks. Any remains of an incendiary device. Where are they?"  
  
I saw his point. The wall plaster, though scorched by the heat of the explosion, was otherwise unmarked. I had, in my military career, had the opportunity to see the effects of various explosives (though not in a civilian setting such as this), and most of them left some sort of evidence behind, whether stuck in the architecture or, at the risk of seeming insensitive, in the victims. A bomb was a very peculiar murder weapon - but this was certainly a peculiar sort of bomb.  
  
"Now who the hell is this?" I heard behind us, startling me.  
  
"Mr MacAvoy," Vetinari said, "I expect you will be more than happy to introduce us to Mr Cavitz."  
  
*****  
  
End Part 13 


	14. Witness

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
Sherlock Holmes was in a foul mood.  
  
He had been up the entire night, supervising the transport of the gold statue under heavy guard and its interment in the Pseudopolis Yard gaol to prevent it being stolen. He had spoken little and eaten even less since his return, and the two night shifts, upon comparing notes, had come to the conclusion that he was either undead or an insomniac, for he had stubbornly refused sleep, sitting in front of the statue in a state of deep meditation, despite the fact that he'd been up since at least midnight the previous night.  
  
It was now just after dawn, and the plate with his dinner on it (now ice cold) now had a bit of company in the form of his breakfast. For all he noticed he might have been petrified himself.  
  
"He's been like that all night," said Ponder, who was fighting sleep himself, to Angua, who was just returning to duty. "He hasn't eaten or slept at all since we got back. The only exciting moment was when Cpl Nobbs went into check on the statue."  
  
"What happened?" asked Angua.  
  
"Apparently he tried to get a souvenir and Mr Holmes hit him with a flying tackle - he was like a tiger or something all of a sudden - and got it away from him."  
  
"Well, he's dedicated, I'll give him that."  
  
"I'm not sure if you want to try talking to him, though. I tried asking him about what Nobbs tried to take last night and he nearly took my head off."  
  
"You think he'd talk to a witness?"  
  
"A witness?" Ponder looked past Angua and failed to find anyone with her.  
  
"Down here, four-eyes."  
  
On a hunch, Ponder looked down.  
  
There, at the end of perhaps the only example of patchwork string, was a dog. In theory, anyway. Ponder had seen this particular creature around the High Energy Magic building a number of times, begging for scraps - he'd told Skazz not to feed it and he *swore* that Skazz told him to get stuffed, but Skazz denied saying any such thing.  
  
"Woof," said the dog.  
  
"This is your witness?" Ponder ventured.  
  
"After a fashion," she replied, "Just don't tell Vimes I brought him in here."  
  
"It's a dog," Ponder protested feebly.  
  
"Yeah, what of it?" Angua seemed to say. Ponder looked at her, startled, but saw that she was glaring at the dog. He followed her gaze, hoping vainly that it would help. The dog looked at him.  
  
"Bark," it said.  
  
"Er, go ahead," Ponder sputtered, "I don't think Vimes would mind."  
  
"Thanks," Angua said, and patted him on the shoulder. He was still trying to work out the last conversation when she left.  
  
"I need a pipe," Holmes announced, apparently sensing other life forms nearby, when Angua and the dog entered the holding area. He looked precisely like someone who'd been up all night - his eyes were red, his hair was mussed from running frustrated fingers through it, and he needed to shave.(a)  
  
"We don't have any spare pipes around here," Angua replied, "but I could probably get you a cigarette, or a cigar if you really needed it."  
  
Holmes waved at her impatiently. "No good. I can't think properly unless I've got a pipe."  
  
"Well, if you're interested, I may have found you a witness."  
  
"A witness - to what? I don't even know what happened, if anything, or if it would help if there was a witness to it." He glanced at the scrap of gold cloth he'd wrestled from Nobby. Well, not precisely a scrap.  
  
"Arf."  
  
Holmes looked over and registered the presence of the dog. "What's that?" he asked.  
  
"This is Gaspode," Angua replied, as the dog scratched furiously at one ear, "your witness."  
  
"Woof," said Gaspode, adding "Biscuit."  
  
Holmes blinked once, slowly. He had the look of a man who up till now has always believed the evidence of his senses, and was really trying hard to find a category to fit this new piece of evidence into. Logic, he had already learned, was optional in this city. He decided to try out a theory that, under the circumstances, appeared plausible.  
  
"Your dog spoke," he said to Angua, very matter-of-factly. He watched her carefully for any indication that, yes, he was going mad.  
  
"Don't be daft," said Gaspode, "Everyone knows that dogs can't talk."  
  
"I'm not talking to you," Holmes snarled at Gaspode, "and furthermore I refuse to argue with you about your capacity for speech. I am really not in the mood for any foolishness."  
  
"Said the man who was yelling at a dog," Gaspode grumbled, then looked up at Angua, "What side of the bed did he wake up on?"  
  
"Gaspode saw the whole thing," Angua informed Holmes, "And I think he may be able to help you with the Lightfoot case."  
  
"You gonna eat any of that?" Gaspode queried, snuffling at Holmes' breakfast, "I can't really remember all that well on an empty stomach anyway."  
  
"I don't suppose I can stop you," Holmes growled.  
  
"I don't suppose you can, either," Gaspode replied, and tucked in.  
  
"You know, it really isn't healthy," Angua said to Holmes, "Not eating or sleeping like that."  
  
"I haven't the energy to spare for digestion nor the time to spare for sleep," he retorted, then looked back down at the scrap of gold cloth, "And I would appreciate it people would stop asking me about it - good heavens, is he done already?"  
  
Two eggs, a side of bacon, and several sausage links had vanished into the furry black hole that was Gaspode, and the little dog was licking the plate. Gaspode glanced up at Holmes, and belched pointedly at him like only dogs can.  
  
"Now - what'd ye wanna know?" Gaspode prompted, "I haven't got all day, you know."  
  
Several regions of Holmes' brain had to rearrange themselves into a more compatible format before he spoke.  
  
"I need to know what you saw in that alley. Tell me everything, and don't leave out any det--" He had leaned back in the rickety chair and steepled his fingers in his customary posture of listening attentively, and was just about to do exactly that when the back of the chair gave way. The back, unfortunately, was of a piece with the hind legs of the chair, which were in turn connected with the front legs via a few supportive dowels, so the whole mess crumpled over backwards like it had just had a heart attack, leaving Holmes sitting more or less on the stone floor.  
  
"I am really starting to despise this city," Holmes growled.  
  
"Looks like the feeling is mutual," Gaspode volunteered, and was forced to duck when the empty breakfast plate came skimming through the air at him.  
  
*  
  
(a) It was a common joke around the Watch that when you started to look like Vimes, it was time to take a break. Everyone thought it was funny except for Vimes.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 14. 


	15. Gaspode's Tale

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Still Ankh-Morpork::  
  
Sherlock Holmes disentangled himself from the remains of the collapsed chair, rearranging himself  
  
so he sat cross-legged on the dismembered seat, facing Gaspode.  
  
"Speak," Holmes said, simply.  
  
"Har-de-har-har," Gaspode groused, "I bet it took you three whole seconds to come up with that  
  
one." He plopped down on his haunches. "An absolute laugh riot."  
  
"I fear I left my sense of humour in London. Now did you or did you not witness anything of  
  
significance in the alley off Gleam Street?"  
  
"All right, all right. Since you're obviously some kind of detective or something. I gotta warn ya  
  
- you're not gonna understand some of the details."  
  
"I shall be the judge of that."  
  
Gaspode sighed. "I was out walking my human - you see, you've got that baffled look on your  
  
face already!"  
  
"I'm sure I'll understand, given time. Continue."  
  
"I was out walking my human - mixed-breed beggar named Foul Ole Ron, you may have met  
  
him."  
  
"I don't recall that I have."  
  
"Oh, you'd remember him - trust me. Anyway, I saw this guy wandering around by the Times  
  
offices."  
  
"Describe him for me."  
  
"He wasn't all that tall, as humans go - I'd say about like that wizard you got upstairs, but it's  
  
hard to tell from down here - and he wasn't local."  
  
"How can you tell?"  
  
Gaspode shrugged. "He didn't smell local - I knew it, you've got that look on your face again.   
  
Look - I could tell he wasn't local just like I can tell you're not local. Ankh-Morpork gets in your  
  
pores, you know?"  
  
"I believe it." Holmes looked like he meant every word.  
  
"And he was dressed like an out-of-towner, too - my guess is Genua or someplace like that. His  
  
clothes were all different colours like a rainbow got sick on him."  
  
"I wasn't aware dogs could perceive colours."  
  
"Most of us can't. Gotta love magical radiation, huh?"  
  
"Was he wearing anything unusual?"  
  
"Yeah - a pair of gloves - all sparkly like they were made of gold. Now I says to Ron, Those are  
  
some neat-looking gloves - he's just asking to get mugged, wearing gloves like that. And sure  
  
enough, along comes this Thief up the alley towards Gleam Street. I could smell him - probably a  
  
student or something. So I tell Ron to stay back while I see how this goes down, and Ron stays  
  
while I follow the chap with the gloves. Maybe he had some scraps on him or something. The  
  
wind was in our favour, fortunately - otherwise this woulda been different."  
  
"What has the wind to do with it?" Holmes asked.  
  
"We were downwind. That meant anyone for three blocks *behind* Ron would know he was  
  
there, but Mr Golden Gloves didn't, not yet anyway. So the Thief reaches out from the alley and  
  
grabs Mr Golden Gloves and drags him into the alley, and Mr Golden Gloves fights like hell, but  
  
Mr Thief gets hold of one of those gloves and pulls it off, and the muggee loses his balance and  
  
falls down. And when he puts his hands out to break his fall - bamf!"  
  
Holmes raised an eyebrow. "Bamf?"  
  
"Bamf!" Gaspode repeated proudly.  
  
"Explain to me the concept behind bamf."  
  
Gaspode deflated slightly. "The hand that used to have the glove on it touches some of the  
  
cobbles, and they turn into gold. There was a mouse there too that I guess got brushed, and it got  
  
changed too."  
  
"Just like that?"  
  
"Just like that. Now, the guy gets up - turning a cockroach and a few bricks in one of the walls as  
  
he gets his balance, and the Thief has seen all the bamf going on and of course *he* can't believe  
  
his greedy little eyes. But the guy wants his glove back, of course, and he grabs the Thief before  
  
he can make up his mind to run off. Oops, wrong hand."  
  
"Bamf again?"  
  
"Big Bamf. As in one Thief-sized bamf, left standing there in the alley. Now Golden Gloves, he  
  
looks like he's about to wet himself panicking, and he just runs off."  
  
"You understand, of course, that where I come from this is certainly a fantastic tale."  
  
"You want proof?" Gaspode demanded, "Angua made Ron wait outside, but *he's* got your  
  
proof. After Golden Gloves runs off, *we* went in and grabbed the mouse and the cockroach."  
  
Holmes turned to Angua. "Would you allow Gaspode to go retrieve those items? They would be  
  
most benificial."  
  
"Well, we kept the mouse, anyway," Gaspode scowled, "Ron gave the cockroach to Queen Molly  
  
- he's still trying to get in the Beggar's Guild."  
  
"Who is Queen Molly?"  
  
"Duh - the Guildmistress of the Beggars."  
  
"Very well - go and retrieve the mouse for me, and I may wish to speak with Ron as well."  
  
"Got a head cold?" Gaspode asked brightly.  
  
"Not that I am aware," Holmes replied.  
  
"I suggest you develop one before you talk to Ron. He isn't called Foul for nothing."  
  
As Gaspode waddled off, Holmes glanced up at Angua, then seemed to remember his manners  
  
and got to his feet.  
  
"So - what do you think, Mr. Holmes?" she asked him as he brushed the dust from his clothing.  
  
"I think I'm still in London in the throes of a delirious ague, but that obviously has no bearing on  
  
the case at hand."  
  
"I've never seen anyone handle Gaspode like that - usually people just don't believe he can talk."  
  
"This is a novelty for myself as well - seldom do I find a direct witness to an event I'm  
  
investigating, never have I encountered a mystery of this calibre - and never before have I  
  
interviewed a dog. I can only assume he makes a reliable witness."  
  
"Well, nothing that you can bring before a court of law."  
  
"I assumed not. It would be difficult to cross-examine him - ah, here he comes again."  
  
Gaspode made his way down the stairs with his prize, padded up to Holmes [overgrown toenails  
  
clicking on the stone floor], and sat down in front of him. Holmes crouched down and held his  
  
hand out under Gaspode's mouth. Gaspode dropped the object in question.  
  
Holmes held it up to the light. It was, indeed, a perfectly rendered golden mouse, from its  
  
delicate gold-filament whiskers to its tiny claws, frozen in a startled pose with its back arched and  
  
its head turned to one side and its whiskers flared out. Its eyes were little chips of amber.   
  
"Remarkable... even the fur is still soft." Holmes patted Gaspode on the head. "Good boy,  
  
Gaspode."  
  
Gaspode grumbled at being patted on the head and called a Good Boy by any human, then got a  
  
baffled look on his face and glared back at his traitorous tail, wagging furiously.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 15. 


	16. Mr Cavitz

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
We turned to face the master of the house, a gentleman of average build, tidily dressed, with side-  
  
whiskers like the mane of a bob-cat. His hair was sandy-blond, touched with a bit of grey at the  
  
temples and in the whiskers. As we watched, waiting for MacAvoy to find his tongue again, Mr  
  
Cavitz recomposed himself, the ruddiness subsiding like an ebb tide.  
  
"Forgive my outburst," Cavitz said, "I'm not accustomed to finding strangers in my house -  
  
especially at the apparent behest of one of my servants."  
  
"It was a good-faith error," Vetinari replied calmly, "We believed MacAvoy had gained your  
  
blessing for our presence - naturally some margin can be allowed, considering how close his  
  
daughter came to being killed." He held out his hand to Cavitz. "Sherlock Holmes, at your  
  
service. You have my every assurance that I will find out who caused this heinous deed, and  
  
bring him to justice."  
  
Cavitz clasped Vetinari's hand dubiously. "Alastair Cavitz, at yours. I thought it was just  
  
happenstance," he said, "a gas leak or whatnot."  
  
Vetinari smiled. "I doubt that very much - after all, I saw no gas fixture in that corner, though  
  
they are quite plain flanking the fireplace and over by the door. Unless, of course, you can think  
  
of a way to make gas from any of them pool over there."  
  
Cavitz was silent.  
  
"Now," Vetinari continued, "I am currently trying to get an idea of where everyone was when the  
  
incident occurred."  
  
"Well, I wasn't in the parlour, thank the good Lord, when it happened. I was in the hallway just  
  
outside the kitchen. I was going to follow Mrs Morris - she was bringing out the cake - and my  
  
wife back into the parlour so I could wish Rebecca a happy birthday and give her my gift."  
  
"Was anyone else in the hall with you?" Vetinari asked.  
  
"I was talking with Mrs MacAvoy about a strange smell under the bed. I suspected that she or  
  
one of the other maids hadn't cleaned properly in the bedroom and I wanted to bring it to her  
  
attention."  
  
I barely saw Vetinari's attention flicker, but flicker it did, towards Mrs MacAvoy, who was now  
  
standing not far behind Cavitz. I could not readily perceive what it was that had caught Vetinari's  
  
attention, and I resolved to ask him about it later.  
  
"Thank you, Mr Cavitz," Vetinari said presently, "You have been most helpful."  
  
"If there's anything else I can do to help you, just ask," Cavitz offered.  
  
"There is something you can help me with," Vetinari replied immediately, "I should like to speak  
  
with Mrs MacAvoy's brother Nathan. I'm given to understand he was quite in the thick of it."  
  
Cavitz frowned. "I'm afraid that will be--"  
  
"I know where he is," Mrs MacAvoy said suddenly, "I can take you to see him once you're done  
  
here, Mr Holmes."  
  
"Thank you," said Vetinari, "That will do nicely. It appears we are done here for now, Mr  
  
Cavitz. I appreciate your understanding."  
  
Cavitz opened his mouth twice to reply, but each time shut it again. Meanwhile, Mrs MacAvoy  
  
had flitted away into the hallway again.  
  
"Come along, Watson," Vetinari said to me in a discreet tone as he followed her, "There is  
  
another layer to his mystery besides the obvious."  
  
"Yes," I replied, "I noticed you glancing at Mrs MacAvoy while you were talking to Mr Cavitz."  
  
"Well, in the course of you noticing me, did you happen to notice what I was noticing of Mrs  
  
MacAvoy? No, apparently not."  
  
"Why, what did you notice?" I was privately hoping he wasn't getting distracted. Holmes would  
  
have a fit if his own substitute was violating this unspoken code of detection.  
  
"Mrs MacAvoy knows something about how the incident transpired. When Mr Cavitz was giving  
  
his account of that day, I observed her reaction."  
  
"And?"  
  
"And what? It bears investigating, is all." He gave me the most infuriating smile of feigned  
  
naivete that I had ever encountered. At least Holmes didn't bother being coy about his  
  
suspicions.  
  
Mrs MacAvoy had paused in the servants' quarters, and there we met her.  
  
"Now," Vetinari said to her, "I believe you were just about to take us to see your brother."  
  
"Not only that," she replied, "But there is something else you should know. Something Mr  
  
Cavitz left out in his account."  
  
She glanced beyond us, back into the hallways, as though she feared being overheard.  
  
"We shall cover the matter on the way to see your brother," Vetinari said, "Shall we ask your  
  
husband to drive us?"  
  
Mrs MacAvoy went rather pink.  
  
"Or not," Vetinari added with the verbal dexterity of a knife-juggler, "I expect this is a matter best  
  
kept in privacy."  
  
Her relief as plain as if it were painted across her forehead.  
  
"Watson," Vetinari said, "go call a hansom. This may be a very informative journey."  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 16. 


	17. Ron

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
Sherlock Holmes left Pseudopolis Yard with Gaspode's strong-leash in hand and abruptly collided with an olfactory wall. He gagged.  
  
"Mr. Holmes, meet Ron. Ron, this is Mr Holmes."  
  
Holmes shielded his nose and mouth with a pocket-handkerchief. "Charmed," he said queasily.  
  
"Buggrit," Ron summarised.  
  
In every city there is usually at least one individual who is considered by the locals to be a force of nature. Foul Ole Ron was one of those individuals, except he was considered less a force of nature than a form of bioterrorism.  
  
"Come on – move off so the man can breathe, wouldya?" Gaspode growled  
  
"If he moves must farther away I shan't be able to speak with him," Holmes said.  
  
"I wasn't talking to Ron," Gaspode returned, "I was talking to his Smell. Go on – git."  
  
To Holmes' surprise (and relief), the dense cloud of elements only found in Ron's unique biosphere moved to a less oppressive distance from the detective. He pulled the handkerchief away from his face, and found that it was irregularly stained in sepia-tones, as though someone had blown tobacco smoke over it from about an inch away.  
  
"Foul Ole Ron, I presume," Holmes began again, "This may sound odd, but your dog has told me quite a bit about you."  
  
"I tole em, I tole em, millennium hand and shrimp, can't trust those prawns nowadays, gotta know what to do with themselves else they get ideas in their heads, buggrit… buggrem…"  
  
Holmes sighed. "Mr Ron, the past few days have been exceedingly difficult for me. Now, I'm sure you have your own problems as well, and I appreciate that. However, my patience is very thin right now, and I would like a few questions answered before it wears through completely. Is that clear?"  
  
Ron stopped in midramble and looked hard at Holmes. Holmes could see frantic activity going on behind Ron's eyes, like a roomful of spiders getting electrocuted.  
  
"With all due r'speck, y'r Lordship," Ron said, "You look like crap."  
  
"I am aware of that," Holmes replied cooly.  
  
"Wotcher need?"  
  
"I wish to ask you a few questions about the incident near Gleam Street."  
  
"Ye mean the Bamf?"  
  
"Yes, I mean the Bamf. Tell me all about the Bamf."  
  
Ron shrugged, and a few flakes from the topmost layer of dried grime slid lazily from the beggar's shoulders like brownish icebergs breaking off a polluted glacier. "Gaspode saw most of it."  
  
"Very well. I trust there are more… like you?"  
  
"There's nobody in the city like Ron," Gaspode interjected.  
  
"Who's askin?" Ron demanded.  
  
"I simply need a bit of aid in finding the owner of this glove." Holmes held up the golden glove in front of Ron's red-rimmed eyes. "Scouts, if you will. I will compensate anyone who brings me *reliable* information as to his whereabouts. This may be a matter of life and, ah… death."  
  
"Right you are, y'r Lordship. I'll get right on it." Ron shuffled off, grumbling and muttering under his breath as he went.  
  
"What did he mean, 'Your Lordship'?" Holmes asked Gaspode.  
  
"'E thinks you're Lord Vetinari, that's what." Gaspode sounded amused.  
  
"Is that a good thing?"  
  
"Oh yeah… Ron's got pantloads o' respect for Lord Vee, bein' that he's the Patrician of Ankh-Morpork. Just don't get too comfy."  
  
"I don't intend to. This city is not the sort of place I wish to spend the remainder of my lifespan."  
  
"Er, excuse me… Mr. Holmes?" said a voice behind them.  
  
Holmes turned. It was that quirky wizard chap again. He was holding a mug of what might have once been coffee. The steam that rose from it was tinged green. On the bright side, at least he looked like he was awake.  
  
Painfully, excruciatingly awake. Wizards were not morning people, as a rule. (a)  
  
"Yes?" Holmes prompted. Gaspode sighed theatrically, plopped down on his haunches, and started chewing thoughtfully at an itchy and hard-to-reach spot near the middle of his back.  
  
"I need to go with you," Ponder said.  
  
Holmes turned the idea over in his mind. "Why do you need to with me?" he asked.  
  
"Several reasons, really," said Ponder.  
  
"Oh boy," muttered Gaspode, "Several reasons. This ought to be good."  
  
"First, the lads and I need to keep track of you so we know exactly where you are when we find His Lordship – Lord Vetinari – in Lon-Don."  
  
"Why do you think the Lord Vetinari is in London?" Holmes asked  
  
"Well, you're here, he's not, and he had to go somewhere, right?"  
  
"Magic?" The word still appeared to leave a stale taste in the detective's mouth, despite the evidence of his current wardrobe.  
  
"Exactly. The spell that brought you here sent him there. It's simple conservation of mass.  
  
"At least some laws of science still apply here."  
  
"Secondly," Ponder continued, ignoring the barb, "you don't know your way around the city as well as I do. Thirdly, it's my responsibility to make sure you don't get killed, or else Quantum could happen."  
  
"Quantum?"  
  
"That would be a bad thing. If you're killed, there would be no way to get his Lordship back. And that's the best case scenario."  
  
"Dare I ask about the worst case?"  
  
"The worst case scenario is that both of you would get erased from history. It would cause ripples in time-space through both our worlds, even worse than the ripple that caused the incident in the first place. Imagine what your Lon-Don would have been like if you'd never been born."  
  
"Very well. You may come with us. I would prefer not to have to find my way back to Gleam Street by myself anyway."  
  
Ponder suddenly looked guilty. "There's one more reason why I wanted to come with you, sir."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"I'd really like to see how all this turns out. I really hope you figure out what happened, because quite frankly I'm baffled."  
  
Holmes smiled. He had found a local Watson.  
  
*****  
  
(a) Then again there were always people like Archchancellor Ridcully, who not only laughed at such rules but also frequently and gleefully took a croquet mallet to them and then jumped up and down on the fragments.  
  
*****  
  
End of Pt 17. 


	18. So Close or, Unresolved Issues

::London::  
  
Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
"Thank you for allowing us to speak with you," Vetinari said to Nathan Llewelyn once we'd arrived with Mrs. MacAvoy. She still seemed rather ill at ease, even on the cab ride over, but all the same she never wavered in her decision to come without her husband. I did not push the issue.  
  
Mr. Llewelyn was, of course, still in the hospital being treated for his burns (which covered the right side of his face and most of his right arm, but I could see almost immediately that they were not serious.  
  
"You'll excuse me if I don't shake your hand, sairs," he said, holding up his bandaged right hand.  
  
"Completely," said Vetinari, "It was, of course, a miracle that you survived at all. I understand you were right in the fireball when the bomb exploded."  
  
"Aye," Llewelyn agreed, "And more of a miracle that it wasn't any bigger'n it was. Otherwise…" He trailed off.  
  
"Otherwise your brother-in-law and little niece might have been caught in it," Vetinari finished.  
  
Llewelyn hesitated, then nodded. "And Mrs Cavitz, I expect."  
  
"In fact," Vetinari continued, "Had you not chosen to light your cigarette at that time things might have been considerably worse than they were."  
  
"What're ye getting at, Mr. Holmes?" Llewelyn said, looking at Vetinari suspiciously.  
  
"Only that miracles sometimes happen for the strangest of reasons. Tell me, Mr. Llewelyn, do you still keep contact with your parents?"  
  
"Aye," he said, slightly mollified, "They didn't like Kathleen marrying who she did, but they learned to live with it, especially after she and her husband moved to London. Absence makes the heart grow fonder, aye?"  
  
"I have often found that to be true. Tell me, Mr. Llewelyn… who brought the balloons?"  
  
I saw for a moment a look of disorientation cross Llewelyn's face in response to the abrupt change in subject. Apparently Vetinari tended to follow a similar school of interrogation to Holmes'.  
  
"Mr Cavitz had me bring the decorations," Llewelyn said, "He said to make them special, for Rebecca's birthday. I couldn't exactly refuse." I noticed that Llewelyn was starting to sweat a bit.  
  
"Holmes," I said, "Maybe we should let the man rest. He's starting to look a bit feverish."  
  
"Yes, of course… Watson, might I requisition a pencil and a sheet of paper from that notepad you keep referring to?"  
  
I gave him the items he requested, and he wrote a brief note, tore it out of the pad, folded it in quarters, and handed it to Llewelyn.  
  
"I shall allow you to decide your next course of action," Vetinari said simply, and we left.   
  
When he had reached the doorway I heard the rustle of paper as Llewelyn unfolded the note, and a few moments later he let out a strangled cry. I started to turn, but Vetinari caught my arm in a strong grip and fairly dragged me away from his room.  
  
"He'll be fine," Vetinari assured me, "I merely gave him something to think about."  
  
"You know who did this, don't you?" I accused him, "Was it him?"  
  
"All in good time, Watson. I merely have a single issue left to resolve before the puzzle is complete. Thank you for allowing us this interview, Mrs MacAvoy" –for we had by now reached the waiting room, where Mrs MacAvoy awaited our return—"It was most educational. I believe that I nearly have the mystery unfurled. Shall we return to the estate?"  
  
As we walked Mrs MacAvoy back out to the waiting cab, we were suddenly confronted by the strangest pair of individuals ever to grace the streets of London.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
Holmes paused as he and his little entourage reached the alley and found it occupied.  
  
"Miss Littlebottom, was it?" he enquired of the dwarf in magnifying goggles, who was currently examining a patch of the alley wall which was missing a few bricks. She glanced over at the assembled.  
  
"Oh – g'day to you, Mr. Holmes. I won't ask if you had a good night's sleep because according to most accounts you didn't sleep at all." She glanced down and wrinkled her nose. "Nice dog."  
  
"I was hoping to track our suspect by scent, and the dog was loaned to me," Holmes replied calmly. "Might I ask what *you* are doing?"  
  
"Forensics. You might have heard of it – though considering the rumour that you don't believe in alchemy—"  
  
"Alchemy is one thing. Forensics is quite another. I myself have studied various methods of analysing trace evidence – testing for blood, determining the chemical makeup of various toxins, and such – and I have consistently achieved my results without any magic or wizardry."  
  
"You poor deprived child," Cheery deadpanned, and returned to her work, "If you don't mind, could you please not tread on the trace evidence?"  
  
Holmes frowned but stepped back as she dripped something fizzy onto a sample mounted on a slide and peered through a lens at the result. She grunted in satisfaction and slipped the slide into a matchbox.  
  
"Did you find anything useful?" Holmes asked as she turned to leave the alleyway.  
  
"Nothing that would concern you, Mr. I Don't Believe In Alchemy," she sniffed, "It turned purple, is all."  
  
Holmes ground his teeth. "*What* turned purple?" he asked, "If I have offended you in some way I apologise. I am obviously unfamiliar with my current surroundings, trying to assemble a puzzle that is missing half its pieces. I… would appreciate any help I can find."  
  
Cheery sighed. "I was testing a sliver of metal I dug out of the wall. It's iron, fair quality, barely rusted. The fact that it's iron means it wasn't dug out by any of the Guilds – the ones that carry weapons get nice steel ones. The absence of rust means that the brick was dug out of the wall fairly recently – probably about a day or less before you were discovered in the Palace."  
  
"How do you know the brick was dug out? It might have crumbled by itself." Ponder saw by Holmes' expression that he was testing Cheery, and wondered about the wisdom of this.  
  
"You don't use a new dagger to dig at a hole in the wall," she returned, "And besides, there's a few flakes of gold around the hole. *Pure* gold."  
  
"Like in the statue of the unfortunate Mr. Lightfoot?"  
  
"Exactly. And I didn't need forensics to figure *that* out."  
  
"Yes, of course… a dwarf trait."  
  
"I expect everyone around here will be wondering where all this gold came from, and how to get more."  
  
"If I have anything to do about it, no-one will ever find out."  
  
"Right. In case you haven't noticed, someone who's overflowing with gold isn't gonna be able to hide for very long."  
  
"Very well. I wish you luck in finding him, then. I expect it ought to be a walk in the park for such as yourself. In the meantime I shall employ my own methods."  
  
"Did you just make a wager with Sgt Littlebottom?" Ponder asked as the dwarf tromped away.  
  
"I don't recall doing as much," Holmes replied, "After all, a wager requires an ante, and I didn't wager anything."  
  
"I feel sorry for anyone who stands between a dwarf and a potential source of gold."  
  
"And of course if anyone has kidnapped him already…" Holmes smiled.  
  
"Oh shit," Ponder concluded.  
  
"Precisely. She will provide immense aid toward freeing him if he has run across any unscrupulous individuals."  
  
"You just described 95% of the Ankh-Morpork population," Gaspode interjected.  
  
Holmes offered the glove to Gaspode. "Now what I need you to do is follow the scent inside this glove."  
  
"All right, if you think it'll help us beat a dwarf to a walking gold factory," Gaspode said, "But I fully expect a treat once this is all over – and *not* just a scritch behind the ears and a Good Boy, neither. I'm talking a nice big plate of ribs from Harga's. With the *good* steak sauce."  
  
"If you *don't* get tracking right now, what you'll get is a swift kick," Holmes snapped.  
  
"All right, all right, I'll get right on it. Just remember what I said – the *good* steak sauce." Gaspode snuffled inside the glove, and then proceeded to make a great show of analysing the scent. "Yup. Definitely from Genua. He smells like blackened catfish and curry." He put his nose to the ground, teetered at the first intimate noseful of concentrated Ankh-Morpork, and started snuffling and snorting in concentric circles.  
  
Ponder's pocket started to chime. After a few startled moments, he fumbled the pocket omniscope out and opened it.  
  
"Skazz?"  
  
"The one and only, Ponder! I've got good news!" Skazz's voice chirped tinnily from the omniscope.  
  
"What on the Disc are you wearing?!"  
  
At this point Holmes' curiosity overcame his concentration on the case and he craned his head to see what Ponder was talking to. Framed in the omniscope crystal was Skazz, in a mostly-Victorian costume.   
  
"I'm adapting, like you told me," Skazz explained, "You told me, adopt the local costume when you can. You told me, be inconspicuous. You told me—"  
  
"I never said anything about colour-coordinating your outfit to your hair! You look like Lord Wonka of the Confectioners' Guild!"  
  
"Why not? Looks like the men here do that anyway."  
  
"If I may," Holmes said, "Most Londoners do not have purple hair."  
  
"Who's that?" Skazz asked.  
  
"That's Mr. Holmes – the chap who should be over there while His Lordship is over here. I do hope the Librarian is with you?"  
  
"Yeah," Skazz said sourly, "unfortunately for my attempts to study the local culture."  
  
The Librarian grabbed the omniscope from Skazz. The orangutan, Holmes noticed with something between bafflement and amusement, was also wearing a typical Londonian costume, though he didn't know of any tailor who would have been willing to make a suit of simian proportions.  
  
"Ook ook eek ook-ook eek eek ook."  
  
Ponder turned to the bewildered Holmes. "What's a Whitechapel?" he asked before Holmes could even begin to formulate a question.  
  
"Whitechapel," Holmes said, "Is a district of London well known for its population of working ladies."  
  
"What sort of work?" There was a slight edge to Ponder's question.  
  
"You might recall Miss Roxanne," Holmes replied.  
  
"Okay," Ponder replied calmly, then turned back to the omniscope. Skazz, I expressly forbid you to make any further anthropological studies of Whitechapel!"  
  
"But, Ponder… you *did* tell us to study the culture of London, right?"  
  
"Yes, but—"  
  
"And Whitechapel is part of London, right?"  
  
"Yes, but—"  
  
"And it appears that visiting the domicile of one of these women is a rite of passage into manhood—and since it's a foreign culture, studying a rite of passage into manhood is anthropology, right?"  
  
"Visiting a house of negotiable affection is *not* anthropology!" Ponder shouted.  
  
"I guess you don't wanna hear my good news, then," Skazz sulked.  
  
Just then, Gaspode barked to indicate he'd found the scent. Actually, he said, "Arf, arf. You done talking or you want to catch this guy later?"   
  
"Come along, Stibbons," Holmes said, "We've got a man to catch."  
  
Things got very complicated after that when Ponder and Holmes tried to turn and follow, for the very simple reason that – by accident or design – Gaspode's last two turns had wound the leash rather snugly around Holmes' legs.  
  
*****  
  
End Part 18. 


	19. Intersections

Author's note: Sorry this has taken so long to update – been horrendously busy between working and getting ready for a sci fi convention. On a lighter note, I found the perfect sewing pattern for an Inverness coat [Sherlock Holmes cape, but you knew that]. If anyone is interested in the pattern number, just ask!  
  
Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
Once I'd overcome my shock at seeing the young man in the brilliant purple suit and his pet orangutan (also in a suit of well-tailored clothing – though I can't imagine how they'd convinced the tailor to take on such a project), I noticed the abrupt disappearance of Mrs. MacAvoy (who had fled back into the hospital in fright at seeing the orangutan), as well as the fact that Vetinari seemed not to be bothered in the least by their appearance.  
  
"Skazz, was it?" Vetinari enquired of the young man, "I trust you have a *very* good explanation for this entire chain of events." Vetinari's tone had a potentially lethal edge to it.  
  
"Aye, yer Lordship," the man who was apparently Skazz said, bowing to Vetinari. He had until a few moments ago been apparently engaged in an argument with his pocket-watch, but now was shaking it and tapping the side of it in between deferring to Vetinari. "We're just experiencing, er… a few technical difficulties right now. I think Ponder might have dropped his omniscope."  
  
"Dropped his what?" I interjected, trying gallantly to keep up with the conversation.  
  
Skazz sighed heavily. "And who are you?" he asked me, as though I was an intruder to the conversation.  
  
"This is Dr. Watson," Vetinari supplied, "A friend to the man currently in Ankh-Morpork."  
  
"Oh – right. Doc, you'll be happy to note that Ponder's found your friend. I don't know what's happened, but…"  
  
"Is he all right?" I asked, naturally concerned for Holmes' well-being.  
  
"He'll be fine, just as long as he doesn't piss off any trolls or dwarves."  
  
I opened my mouth to ask the natural question, but Vetinari overrode me. "As soon as you re-establish contact with Mr. Stibbons, you inform him that I am near the end of some local business. I have only a few more issues to resolve before I leave."  
  
"Er, begging your pardon," Skazz said, "But how could you have business *here*? I mean, you're not the Patrician of London, so—"  
  
"It's complicated," Vetinari understated the obvious, "I expect we shall be done by this evening. Meet us back at the Baker Street residence around eight."  
  
"But, sir – do you know how long it's taken us to find you?"  
  
"Not so long that you didn't have time for some extracurricular anatomy studies along the way," Vetinari hissed. Skazz shrank back under the force of Vetinari's annoyance, and I started to wonder how accurate Vetinari's assertions of his own rank were – once upon a time I had dismissed them as the delusional ravings of a madman, but something about seeing a man with purple hair and an orangutan in menswear tends to rearrange one's preconceived notions of madness.   
  
"Watson, would you be so kind as to fetch Mrs. MacAvoy from the lobby once again?" Vetinari presently said, without taking his eye off Skazz, "I believe our Morporkian assistants were just about to leave us to our business – weren't you, Skazz?" The razor-edged tone returned as he addressed the unfortunate Skazz, who pocketed his strange watch, bowed convulsively and ran off. The orangutan offered me a broad grin and a tip of his slightly abused-looking hat as he knuckled off after his strange handler. I wondered once again under what circumstances he had come by his clothing, but finally concluded that I wouldn't like the answer.  
  
It took some convincing to coax the poor woman back outside, along with repeated reassurances that the "circus people" were really gone.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
Sherlock Holmes had the sort of effortless, ground-devouring lope generally found in certain species of wild dog. This trait was perfectly suited for following a standard tracking dog across, say, a field or along an urban thoroughfare. It was not, however, well-suited for following Gaspode through the streets of Ankh-Morpork. It was, however, very well-suited for nearly dislocating one's shoulder repeatedly with the leash, as Gaspode tended to change directions rather abruptly, not to mention stopping for long periods and then breaking into a run again without warning. Ponder followed to the best of his ability(a), though he was soon out of breath and had a stitch in his side. He paused, leaning against a wall to rest, only to have Holmes charitably double back and urge him onward.  
  
"Dammit Holmes," Ponder snarled, "I'm a wizard, not a runner."  
  
"Then why am I the one tracking our subject and not you?" Holmes shot back irritably, "I expect someone of your profession has his own methods for doing things. Otherwise, stop complaining. We've already had enough of a delay whilst you re-located your pocket-watch."  
  
"I *told* you, it isn't a pocket-watch, it's my omniscope!" Ponder spat, "And I can't co-ordinate the transfer with Skazz without it! Has anyone ever told you how big a jerk you are?"  
  
"Listen to me, Stibbons," Holmes said, a bit less harshly, "We are very close to finding this man. I can smell it just as well as Gaspode can, despite the fact that my nose has shut down entirely since I arrived here. I know that you must be just as eager to find him as I am. You have that certain spark of curiosity about you, the drive to find out why, that won't let you rest until we've found him, am I right?"  
  
After some consideration, Ponder nodded. "It's driving me nuts trying to figure out how he has this ability. I can't think of any spells like that, so it must be a curse of some sort."  
  
"I suppose we'll find that out when we find our man," Holmes responded noncommittally, "Do you think you can run for a bit longer?"  
  
Ponder groaned. "I don't suppose I have much of a choice in the matter."  
  
"No," Holmes said brightly, "I don't suppose you do. Come along then." He pulled the younger man upright by one arm.  
  
"If it helps," Ponder added, "I might be able locate any magical signature he has – if of course that's the nature of his ailment."  
  
"Magical signature?" Holmes cocked an eyebrow.  
  
"In layman's terms, he'll glow in a certain colour that wizards can see, depending on how powerful the signature is." He noticed the detective's blank expression. "The exact mechanics would take entirely too long to explain. Could you just take my word for it? Please?"  
  
"I don't suppose I have much choice in the matter," Holmes sighed, "Just be sure to shout if you see anything of the sort. Gaspode, searAAARGH—"  
  
*  
  
(a) which wasn't all that difficult, considering that Holmes tended to be taller and rather more apologetic than the average Morpork crowd.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
We returned to the Cavitz residence in mutual silence: Vetinari's of deep meditation, Mrs. MacAvoy's of slight bewilderment, and mine of sheer uncertainty. So many of my preconceived notions about Vetinari had come apart during that bizarre encounter outside the hospital, and I wondered what other surprises the man had up his sleeves. For much of the return journey he had sat motionless, his arms folded and his chin upon his breast, so that were I a braver man I might have suspected him of taking a nap. He didn't immediately move as Mrs MacAvoy and I disembarked from the cab, so I reached up to touch his shoulder in case he was in fact asleep.  
  
I didn't even see him move – yet my wrist was caught in his grip all the same.  
  
"Don't touch me," he said simply, before releasing me and dismounting from the cab. He clasped his hands thoughtfully behind him and sauntered up the front steps, leaving me (as it has always been with Holmes) to pay the cabby. I caught movement from the tail of my eye and thought at first that another cab was approaching the manor after us, but dismissed it as it turned down a side street.  
  
I entered the parlour in time to find Vetinari in the parlour.  
  
"I have sent Mrs MacAvoy to gather here the players of this little melodrama," he announced to me, "I expect they'll be here shortly."  
  
"What are you planning?" I asked.  
  
"I plan to make a small announcement," he replied, "A small announcement with a potentially significant impact. I advise you to be ready."  
  
"Be ready for what?"  
  
"Mr MacAvoy." It took me two seconds to realise that he was now looking past me to the entryway. "So good of you to join us. I trust that the lord and lady of the house are forthcoming?"  
  
"Aye," MacAvoy said, looking a bit baffled, "Have you found out anything yet?"  
  
"How is your daughter? Is she well?"  
  
"Well – yes, but—"  
  
"Good, good," Vetinari overrode him, "Make sure she stays away from here for the time being. It may get a bit exciting within the next several minutes, unless I miss my guess."  
  
"I'll have Kathleen stay with her in the servants' quarters," MacAvoy said.  
  
"No – I wish Mrs MacAvoy here as well. Have Mrs Morris stay with little Rebecca."  
  
"Mr Holmes, I really—"  
  
"Good evening to you, Mr Cavitz, Mrs Cavitz," Vetinari announced as the indicated entered the parlour, "And Mrs MacAvoy, I would appreciate it if you would stay." As Mrs MacAvoy glanced to her husband for an explanation (and of course he had none), Vetinari turned his attention to Mr Cavitz. The amiable hint of a smile the offered was alarming.  
  
"I expect that right now you're wondering why I have requested this meeting," Vetinari pronounced, at the exact moment Cavitz opened his mouth, ostensibly to ask precisely that, "I shall tell you. You see, in this very parlour, three murders didn't occur. Not for lack of trying, of course, but there you have it. An elaborate murder plot nearly unfolded, to the certain detriment of three innocent victims, but it didn't happen because one man… lit a cigarette." He paused, letting this baffling preface sink in. "I only have one question… for Mrs MacAvoy." He turned on his heel to face the unfortunate woman.  
  
"This may be a difficult question to answer, but it is very important that you answer truthfully," he said to her, "How long have you been afraid of your husband's employer?"  
  
"What--?" Mr MacAvoy began, but Vetinari cut him off with a gesture.  
  
"I don't have to listen to this!" Cavitz announced, and turned to leave, but Vetinari turned and fixed him with such a stare as a mongoose might use to hypnotise a snake.  
  
"I suggest that you stay where you are, Mr Cavitz. Otherwise you might miss something important."  
  
I turned back to Mrs MacAvoy, and saw by her expression that Vetinari's question had struck her to the quick – but not, it seemed, because of its inaccuracy. Vetinari glanced back at her, noted, her expression, and nodded in satisfaction.  
  
"The length of time is not overly important," Vetinari assured her, "I saw the look of fear you gave him when Watson and I were speaking with him. You are a lovely woman, and any man with eyes in his head can see as much, so it would make that he would focus upon you as a solution to his own domestic dilemma, to wit, the inconvenient presence of Mrs Cavitz. Mr MacAvoy said that Mrs Cavitz could not abide tobacco smoke, and I saw few ashtrays in the house, but I noticed a distinct odour of cigars upon Mr Cavitz's clothing and a fluff of cigar ash in the soil of a houseplant in the foyer. I expect, Mr Cavitz, that she banished you and your habit outside. How did that feel? Frustrating? Grating? Infuriating? What other elements did she control? Did she decide to hire the MacAvoys as part of the household staff? The shade of purple you're turning tells me everything I need to know. No, Mr Cavitz, I shall not be quiet. You lost any claim to privacy when you enlisted the woman's own brother in your plan." Vetinari's lips curled back savagely from his teeth, as though disgusted by this detail. Mrs MacAvoy burst into tears at the implication that her brother nearly helped destroy her family. Vetinari continued relentlessly, pacing the length of the parlour between the Cavitzes and the MacAvoys like a border guard.  
  
"I expect Mrs MacAvoy, being the faithful woman she was, rejected your advances towards her, Mr Cavitz, because she was already married and had a daughter to consider. They, too, were obstacles to your happiness in the same way your own wife was. When you met Nathan Llewelyn and found out who he was, you saw your chance to rid yourself of the three people who stood in your way – Mr MacAvoy, Mrs Cavitz… and little Rebecca MacAvoy."  
  
"Lies!" Cavitz roared, "It's all a pack of lies!" The unfortunate man glanced at his wife, but the distance already in her eyes was damning.  
  
"No," said a voice from the doorway, "It's true."  
  
Everyone turned to see Nathan Llewelyn in the entryway, leaning against the doorjamb like some vengeful soul back from the dead, his exposed and swollen face a horrible mask of blisters and pain and his arm trailing a grotesque streamer of bandages. He was wearing a robe over his hospital clothing, and a pair of boots on his otherwise bare feet. I realised that, whatever Vetinari had written on that note, it had spurred the burned man to ignore his injuries and travel after us to the Cavitz estate.  
  
My attention was drawn back to Mr Cavitz by the sound of a revolver's hammer being pulled back. He had drawn a handgun from his pocket while everyone was distracted and now aimed it at Llewelyn.  
  
I shouted a warning a split second before he fired.  
  
*****  
  
End Part 19. 


	20. Playing with Sharp Minds, Part 2

::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
Sherlock Holmes threw his shoulder against the weather-beaten door to which Gaspode had led them. It had looked thin, but it didn't even rattle in its frame under the blow.  
  
"Are you quite sure this is the place?" he asked, addressing Ponder as much as Gaspode.  
  
"I can see something inside," Ponder confirmed, "glowing in the octarine – it looks like a man. I suspect it's our chap."  
  
"I only ask because I don't expect we'll be able to get in the door."  
  
"Barricaded? Stuck? Locked?"  
  
"If this were a matter of a stuck door or a lock I suspect a few swift kicks would break the door. He likely barricaded himself in, to avoid discovery or to keep from hurting others. The question is how to get him out again."  
  
"Well, if we got a troll to help—"  
  
"I would prefer to avoid trolls for the time being, Stibbons. Besides – assuming that his very touch can turn things to gold, and assuming that he did so to the elements of his barricade, he might as well have blocked the door with a dead whale." He glanced around, but the lone window on his floor was also blocked with debris. "Do you see any other ways in?"  
  
"As a matter of fact," Ponder said, "I do."  
  
Holmes glanced at the wizard, who was looking up. He followed Ponder's gaze to a single window on the top floor that was not obscured by boards.  
  
"Let me rephrase that," Holmes said, "Do you see any other *accessible* ways in? I am not a spider."  
  
"Mr Holmes, how much do you weigh?"  
  
Holmes looked at Ponder, narrowing his eyes. "Why?"  
  
Several minutes, one heated argument, and an irrefutable point later, Holmes found himself clinging, white-knuckled, to the side of the building, trying not to look down. The fact that he was inverted didn't help, but the tail of his borrowed raincoat had fallen over his head, so that most of what he saw was waterproofed canvas. Intellectually, he realised that his grip was only hindering the upward motion of the levitation spell, but it took all his willpower to let go of the bricks long enough to continue working his way upward. He had never in his wildest dreams (a) imagined that he would be not only cheating but openly defying one of the most universal laws of physics with the help of a graduate student in a funny hat.  
  
He felt himself drifting away from the building, and there was a moment of throat-tightening panic and stomach-turning vertigo as he lost his grip entirely and somersaulted crazily, limbs flailing. When he finally settled upright, he was still floating unsupported about twenty feet above the street and five feet away from the wall, but that wasn't really the point.  
  
"Stibbons!" he barked at Ponder, his voice unexpectedly shrill.  
  
"Sorry," Ponder called up, though he didn't sound the least bit so, "just try not to cling to the wall so much."  
  
Holmes glanced up from his impossible vantage point and re-located the window, only three feet above him.  
  
"Up a bit," he called down, "and gently, if you would be so kind." He drifted upwards, as lightly as a bit of down fluff, until he was level with the window. "All right, stop. Forward, please. Good." He lifted the sash and pulled himself in, not remembering Ponder's explanation of line-of-sight spell ranges until he was completely inside.  
  
Ponder, standing outside, saw a year's accumulation of dust puff out the open window, kicked up when gravity reclaimed the detective.  
  
*  
  
(a) Which, admittedly, weren't all that wild, even if he'd had a piece of bad steak the evening before.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
I had to go over the ensuing sequence in my head several times before I quite worked out exactly what had happened. Apparently, at the instant I'd shouted my warning about Cavitz's gun, Vetinari had flicked one of his hands in Cavitz's direction, the result of which caused the shot to go wide and hit the doorframe near Llewellyn's shoulder. When my ears stopped ringing from the gunshot, I realised that Cavitz was screaming – which was no wonder, because upon investigation I saw the man's right arm crucified to the parlour wall, with Mrs Hudson's boning knife stuck through his forearm just below the wrist. It was also, therefore, no surprise that he'd dropped the gun. I glanced to Vetinari for an explanation, not really expecting one, for Vetinari was already advancing on the poor man pinned to the wall.  
  
"Now that I have your *undivided* attention, Mr Cavitz," Vetinari hissed, "Perhaps we might be allowed to continue." Shocked silence descended on the parlour – and it was no wonder, for knife-throwing is not generally seen in polite company, let alone the parlour. On the other hand, Holmes and I had, on numerous occasions, seen many events also not generally seen in polite company. "Thank you. You shall be relieved to note, Watson, the bleeding is not severe as long as the knife remains in place, and as long as he does not move too energetically to free himself he won't nick any crucial blood vessels or tear the wound. After all, what would be the point of finding the culprit if he bleeds to death before he can be brought to justice? Mr Llewellyn, it was good of you to come so swiftly. I believe you were about to say something before we were so rudely interrupted?"  
  
Llewellyn took a deep breath, clearly unnerved by Vetinari's accuracy with throwing cutlery. "I wasn't going to say anything in the beginning, you realise," he said, "And in fact had I realised how happy my sister was with Sean and what a beautiful little daughter they had, I wouldn't have agreed to help Mr Cavitz… but when I first came to London my main thought was rescuing Kathleen from the man she'd married." He chuckled bitterly. "And here I nearly ruined your life anyway, Kat. I guess I just wasn't thinking straight. But of course, once you'd handed me that note, Mr Holmes, I knew that the game was up and I'd better come clean… for Kathleen's sake." He pulled the note out of his pocket and handed it to Vetinari, who turned it over to me.  
  
It read: "Your use of hydrogen was cunning."  
  
"Hydrogen!" I exclaimed, "Of course!"  
  
"Yes, hydrogen," Vetinari said, "A hydrogen-filled balloon will float like a helium balloon… with the added bonus that hydrogen is explosively flammable. And of course, even the best-made toy balloon will leak air. Was the original plan to allow the hydrogen to build up in preparation for the birthday candles?"  
  
Llewellyn nodded miserably. "But then I saw Rebecca, and had a chance to talk to Sean, and I couldn't go through with it. I had to do something to stop it before someone got hurt."  
  
"So… you went into the very thick of the hydrogen cloud on the pretence of lighting a cigarette and struck a match." Vetinari turned to his audience. "Boom. He likely survived only by a miracle, but he saved his sister's family." He turned to Cavitz. "And you, sir… your reaction when the parlour exploded was *not* to ask if the man caught in it was hurt. *You* shouted at him for lighting that cigarette – not because your wife can't abide the smoke but because you knew that your plans had gone up with that fireball. You, Mr Cavitz, who plotted to set a bomb at a child's birthday party, to use a birthday cake as a weapon… you are beneath my contempt. And as such I shall take great satisfaction in sending you my bill for services rendered."  
  
"Your bill?!" Cavitz blurted, "You put a knife through my arm, you ruin my life, and now you're sending me your BILL?!" He looked like he wanted to advance on Vetinari, but his arm was still pinned. "Just who the h-ll do you think you are?!"  
  
Vetinari got a quiet, contemplative smile on his face. He turned on his heel, pulling out a handkerchief from his pocket.  
  
"To answer your question," Vetinari said calmly, "I know the one person in all of London that I am not. I am not Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective of Baker Street." I could only watch as he wiped away all the makeup that he had so carefully applied to cover his goatee and mask his pale complexion. "Who I am is largely irrelevant, but remember my face well – because if you refuse to pay this bill in full, or do anything to annoy me or bother the MacAvoys, I *will* find you and deal with you once and for all. Is that understood?"  
  
I saw Cavitz pale in the face of Vetinari's deadly promise, and he appeared to age several years. He nodded mutely. Vetinari nodded in satisfaction.  
  
"Watson," he said, "would you go and fetch me something to bandage this man's arm after I pull the knife out?" To Cavitz, he added, "I do so hate to see a wild animal suffer needlessly."  
  
Mr MacAvoy took me to the washroom to get a hand towel, which I used to bandage Cavitz's wrist once Vetinari had released him. As promised, the bleeding was not severe enough to indicate damage to any of the major blood vessels; the boning knife had passed exactly between the radius and ulna with alarming precision, considering the distance and speed of the throw.  
  
"Come, Watson," Vetinari said, "Our work here is completed. Mr MacAvoy, please take your employer to the hospital, and be certain to alert the authorities. Take Mr Llewellyn with you to corroborate your story."  
  
Once the arrangements had been made, Vetinari and I left for Baker Street for the last time.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 20. 


	21. The Man With the Golden Touch

::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
It was dark in the abandoned building. Not pitch-black, mind, but the sort of deceptive half-light that leads you to believe that you can see better than you can, at least until you bark your shin against a piece of furniture or fall down a flight of stairs. Holmes was, of course, perfectly comfortable in dim light, so once he had gotten to his feet, brushed himself off, and sneezed a few dozen times, he was able to navigate his way to a flight of stairs and make his way down towards the ground floor.  
  
He found the man, after some searching, curled up in the crawlspace beneath the stairs. He had apparently taken some precautions when settling in, because the hand that Holmes could discern was gloved, while the other one was tucked underneath the man's arm. Holmes coughed, and the man jerked awake as though he'd been poked with a spear. The man backpedaled away from Holmes, trying to work his way further into the shadows, and as he did his bare hand came down on the floorboards. Before Holmes' eyes, a wave of sparks rolled over two of the uneven planks, leaving behind planks of gold, textured in every other way like warped floorboards.  
  
"You, sir, appear to be in a bit of trouble," Holmes observed, "I am here to help you."  
  
"Who are you?" the man asked, betraying a heavy accent that Holmes thought was French but was actually Genuan (a).  
  
"My name is Sherlock Holmes." He held out the gold glove. "I believe you lost this somewhere in the vicinity of Gleam Street."  
  
The man with the golden touch snatched the glove away and pulled it on. As his arm and sleeve emerged from the deep shadows, Holmes saw that the man's shirt had transmuted into the same sort of gold cloth that the gloves were made of.  
  
"I suppose you want me to change something into gold for you," the man said sullenly, "Everyone does. I'm about sick of it and sick of gold in general. If I never see another flake of gold in my lifetime, I'll be perfectly happy."  
  
"To judge by the local economy, you could be perfectly happy living here, sir. I would, however, like to know the circumstances leading to your unusual talent, to satisfy my own curiosity. But first, what is your name?"  
  
"My name is Delacroix. Clarence Delacroix."  
  
"Clarence?"  
  
"Ma mere was from Ankh-Morpork. It was her uncle's name."  
  
"I see. Pray contin—"  
  
There was a shout from outside. It was Ponder.  
  
"Mr Holmes! We've got dwarves coming!"  
  
Holmes looked up sharply, then back at Delacroix.  
  
"They must have followed us. Do you know of any other way out of here?" the detective asked urgently.  
  
Ponder went to pick up Gaspode, but the terrier was already gone; he'd weighed the benefit of a steak dinner versus the risk of getting trampled by dwarves and decided that he could get his steak later. Ponder sighed and dove into an alley, just as a dozen dwarves, led by Cheery, zeroed in on the abandoned building already containing Holmes and the man with the magical signature. He hoped Holmes had heard his warning in time as the dwarves proceeded, with the destructive efficiency of a species born and raised to extract precious metals from difficult places, to hack the front door apart.   
  
It was not long before the door collapsed outward with a floury POUF under the weight of the barricade: two hundred pounds' worth of sacks of flour, transmuted into golden sacks containing a quarter ton of gold dust. The sacks burst as they hit the cobbles and the dwarves, causing a rather pretty fog in that area, as well as massive confusion when bystanders noticed and tried to spread the wealth amongst themselves. Dwarves, however, will defend a new vein of gold like wolverines, the fact notwithstanding that it was not a vein but a cloud and therefore much harder to defend.  
  
In the confusion Holmes, shielding his eyes with one hand and dragging Clarence after him with the other, darted and wove his way through the battle on the doorstep. The two escapees slipped and skidded in the gold dust, making progress tricky. They had almost left the fray when a dwarf's random swing with a mace caught Holmes a glancing blow to the ribs. The detective staggered, catching himself with one hand against the wall.  
  
"Are you all right? We have to go!" Clarence urged.  
  
"I'm fine," Holmes replied, "I don't have time to be injured right now. Come." He grabbed Clarence's sleeve and dragged him onward.  
  
"Hey! You there!" someone shouted in the battle.  
  
"They're getting away!" someone else, undoubtedly a dwarf, shouted.  
  
"Get em!"  
  
"All right, Mr Wizard, let's see you get us out of here!" Holmes snapped rhetorically, moments before Ponder dragged him and Clarence into the alley, and cast a hurried teleportation spell. There was a soft *bamf*.  
  
By the time anyone else managed to get into the alley, their targets were already gone. The gold-tinged footprints that Holmes and Clarence had left behind simply ended.  
  
*  
  
(a) To-MAY-to, to-MAH-to, really.  
  
*****  
  
::Still Ankh-Morpork::  
  
"Why on earth didn't you do that in the first place?!" The question, snarled by Holmes, heralded the arrival of all three men at Pseudopolis yard. "It certainly would have saved me having to get levitated up for a fourth-floor window!"  
  
"I'd never been in that building before," Ponder retorted, "and it's dangerous teleporting into unknown environments. I suppose you wouldn't be any happier if you'd arrived stick halfway through a wall."  
  
"Never mind," Holmes sighed, the motion causing him to grunt and clasp his side where the dwarf mace had glanced off him.  
  
Presently Vimes entered the room and looked at Holmes like he really wanted to find a reason to berate the detective for lack of results. Holmes silently pointed at Clarence Delacroix with the hand that wasn't clasping his side. Vimes turned to the Genuan, who waved feebly.  
  
"Are you sure he's the one?" Vimes asked, "He doesn't look like much."  
  
"If you like I can have Mr Delacroix touch you with his bare hand," Holmes replied coolly, "Though if I recall I'm supposed to be the sceptic around here."  
  
"This man, he rescued me from some dwarves," Delacroix said in Holmes' defence, "I think he was injured as we were running away."  
  
"I told you, I'm fine!" Holmes growled.  
  
"You have time to be injured now, n'est-ce pas? In the meantime I know you must want to know how I came to be this way."  
  
"Your situation is rather unique," Holmes conceded readily, "Commander, if you would fetch me a doctor or whatever equivalent you might have in Ankh-Morpork?"  
  
Vimes frowned at Holmes' continued cultural snobbery. "I'll get you our Watch surgeon," he responded, "He probably can't fix what's *been* wrong with you the whole time you've been here, but he can deal with any injuries." Vimes walked out before Holmes had a chance to give him a dark look.  
  
"I get the distinct feeling he doesn't like me," Holmes observed dryly, "In any case, M. Delacroix, I am very eager to hear your story." He pulled up a chair and sat down gingerly.  
  
"I was born in Genua to a poor family. My father was a fisherman, which allowed us to take care of our needs, but we never had very much. So, when I became a man and took a wife, I resolved that I would find a way for my own family to live comfortably as I had not. Now, my father had taught me as a lad how to play Cripple Mr Onion, and I soon became proficient at cards. Naturellement, I thought it would make the perfect profession – playing cards with others for money and living well on my winnings. I found, however, that my skills at Mr Onion that were so high against my father were in fact rather poor against other players, and I frequently lost more than I won. Granted, I was becoming better at it, but I owed money to many powerful people in Genua, and I could not afford to lose very much more. At that point I resolved that I would play one more game and then I would quit and become a fisherman like my father.  
  
"It was my misfortune that I found the opponent I did for my final game. He was sitting alone in one of the gambling-houses, shuffling a deck of cards. He wore a cloak with a hood, drawn up so that his face was in shadow, and when I entered the gambling-house he beckoned to me with a finger tipped with what I hesitate to call a fingernail, so long and hooked it was. I was uneasy but I obeyed his summons and sat down across from him.  
  
"'I hear you like to play Cripple Mr Onion,' he said to me, only in fluent Genuan. I told him that this was so, except that I was only going to play one more game and then quit. He said that was good, for it gave me the chance to play the best hand I ever had. He dealt the cards, and I remarked that we hadn't established a wager yet. He told me that if I won he would give me anything I wished. Now, I only had a few coins in my pocket at the time, and I lamented to him that I had nothing of like value to offer in exchange. He said I did – I had something that he collected as a hobby. Of course I asked him what it was.  
  
"'Your soul,' he responded, and I just such a chill down my spine as I can't describe to you, because it was then that I saw his eyes for the first time – and he had the most awful, dead, predatory eyes, like if a crocodile wore the skin of a man. I knew then that I was in great danger, because if I lost, or if I tried to refuse at this point, I would concede the game and he would get my soul. Monsieur Holmes, I was playing the game of my life against an Efreeti!"  
  
"An Efreeti?" Holmes asked, as blandly as he could manage.  
  
Clarence nodded. "A devil. I'd heard stories out of Klatch that they sometimes grant wishes, but that's only if they're bound to servitude, and even then it's a dangerous game to gamble against demons."  
  
Holmes waved for Clarence to continue.  
  
"Well, I don't need to tell you how afraid I was for my life at that point, but I played the best round of cards I'd ever played in my life, like you always run faster when you're running for your life. Anyway, I think that both of us were surprised when I got a nine-card Onion, and here he had only a triple Onion, and I knew in the pit of my stomach that he wanted to tear me apart, but we'd made an agreement, so he asked me what my wish was, even as he was baring his fangs at me.  
  
"I was trembling badly, but I managed to explain that my family had always been poor, and I only wished to have plenty of money at hand to take care of our needs. He grinned then, and I knew at that moment that I was damned.  
  
"'Your wish is my command,' he said, and he bowed and vanished. I looked around, and nobody had even noticed what had happened, and the deck of cards we'd used was just sitting there, all squared up like nobody'd used it all day. I went to stand up, and in so doing I touched the table with my bare hands, and right before my eyes it turned from wood to gold. That was all well and good, but I'm not a dull man, and after a bit of experimenting I realised that if everything my hands touched turned to gold, I would never be able to touch my wife or my children again. Anyone I touched would turn into a gold statue, and if anyone found out I had this power I would never be a free man again.  
  
"I decided in the end that I should just disappear from Genua, and let people assume what they would. It was well-known that I was in trouble with loan sharks, and I expect everyone thinks I'm at the bottom of the swamp with rocks tied to my feet."  
  
"And so your wanderings took you to Ankh-Morpork," Holmes observed, where you were the victim of an attempted mugging  
  
Clarence nodded. "I found out that only my hands were affected, so I started wearing gloves to prevent any accidents. I didn't mean to touch that man in the alley… it just happened."  
  
Holmes nodded and turned to Ponder. "What do you think? Can this man be cured by any magic you know of?"  
  
"Well, if he was cursed by a demon, it may take a priest to cure him. Maybe the temple of Om or Small Gods or something."  
  
"Fine," Holmes replied, "I'll leave it up to you to make the necessary arran—"  
  
"Did someone call for a medic?" a voice at the door interrupted. Holmes, Ponder, and Clarence all turned to regard the newcomer, and Holmes couldn't conceal his shock at the man's state.  
  
"What on earth happened to you?" he asked, forgetting tact in the midst of his surprise.  
  
"I died," Cpl Shoe replied, "What the hell happened to *you*?"  
  
Holmes glanced uneasily at Ponder, who shrugged.  
  
*****  
  
End of Part 21. 


	22. Conclusion

Disclaimers: See Part 1.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
"My methods tend to be very simple and to the point," Vetinari said coolly to me once we'd arrived back at Baker Street.  
  
"But… you threw a knife at him!" I protested.  
  
"If I'd wanted him dead, he would be dead now, rather than suffering a pierced forearm."  
  
"This isn't Ankh-Morpork. I don't know how you do things there, but around here you simply don't throw knives at people."  
  
"Would you have been happier if I'd shot him? That appears to be the weapon of choice amongst the gentry."  
  
"That isn't my point, and you know it. We'll be lucky if he doesn't try to have you arrested for attacking him."  
  
He smiled thinly. "Now, don't you think that would count as annoying me?"  
  
"Look—"  
  
"Excuse me," said Skazz from the front steps of 221. I looked over to see that he had a black eye, many of the spikes that adorned his scalp were askew, and his clothing was generally dishevelled. The orangutan crouched on the steps beside him and generally looked sulky.  
  
"What happened?" I asked, naturally concerned.  
  
"Nothing," Skazz said innocently, "Are we early?"  
  
"Only by two hours," Vetinari said, "I trust you have some news, then?"  
  
"Well, Mr Holmes just finished up with a case in Ankh-Morpork—"  
  
"How does he have a case in Ankh-Morpork?" I asked.  
  
"It's complicated," Skazz said, "Anyway, he's concerned about how his London case turned out."  
  
I glanced at Vetinari, who said, "Let me speak to him."  
  
Skazz opened the pocket-watch device. "Ponder?"  
  
"Yeah?" came the tinny voice.  
  
"His Lordship wants to talk to Mr. Holmes."  
  
"Hang on." There was a muffled conversation, which culminated in Holmes' face appearing in the lens of the device.  
  
*****  
  
Across the universes, two geniuses met for the first time.  
  
There was a beat of speculative silence.  
  
"I see you've met Miss Cartwright," Holmes said finally.  
  
"And I see you've met Cpl Shoe," Vetinari replied, "Were you injured badly?"  
  
"A bruised brow and a cracked rib, and you?"  
  
"A bruised pride and, Watson tells me, a fading bruise. She has quite the left hook for such a dainty young woman."  
  
Holmes smiled slightly. "I would call her many things before I called her dainty."  
  
"Granted. I trust you encountered a minimum of difficulty in your investigation?"  
  
"I managed to anger a troll and several dwarves, the fog makes me physically ill when I go outside, the Watch medic is a walking dead man, and the Commander was openly hostile to my methods."  
  
Vetinari nodded. "So the answer to my question is yes?"  
  
Holmes blinked, and then looked thoughtful. "All things considered, it might have been worse."  
  
"Certainly. You might have antagonised the vampire community."  
  
"That was the furthest thing from my mind," Holmes replied honestly, "but what puzzles me is what Cpl Shoe said regarding the usual Watch medic."  
  
"What's that?"  
  
"He said that Igor was in the shop at the moment, getting his bolts tightened. I can't begin to imagine what he meant by that."  
  
"It means he's getting his annual check-up with the Guild of Cunning Artificers. Some of their members are Uberwaldian."  
  
Holmes looked even less illuminated. Vetinari explained further. Holmes paled.  
  
"I… see," Holmes squeaked, though he didn't look like he wanted to anymore, "I trust that you fared well in London?"  
  
"I discovered the culprit in the birthday bombing. I doubt he'll be setting any more hydrogen bombs in the near future. Watson can fill you in when you've returned."  
  
Holmes nodded. "Tell him I shall expect a full account when Mr Stibbons has returned me to London by… whatever means."  
  
"Speaking of Mr Stibbons, may I have a word with him?"  
  
Holmes handed over the omniscope to Ponder, who looked like he'd rather try to swallow a porcupine tailfirst than accept the device, but who took it anyway.  
  
"Sir?"  
  
Vetinari said nothing, but the way he raised one dangerous eyebrow at the young wizard forced Holmes to have to dive for the omniscope, which had been tossed up in Ponder's haste to get out of the room.  
  
"I expect he's gone to make arrangements to reverse his error," Vetinari said to Holmes' puzzled expression, "Do go with him so he doesn't have to come find you again."  
  
"I have one last question for you, Mr Vetinari… who exactly *are* you in Ankh-Morpork?"  
  
Vetinari smiled mysteriously. "I am merely a civic leader, Mr Holmes – a well-educated politician who recognises the merits of a few well-placed rumours." He closed the connection.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
At times, even an un-athletic wizard can put on an impressive turn of speed (a), which meant that by the time Holmes caught up with Ponder they were nearly back on University grounds. The detective grabbed Ponder's arm to bring him to a halt, and was forced to dodge a reflexively cast spell.  
  
"Sorry, sir," Ponder gasped, trying to get his breath back, "You startled me."  
  
"Is this the place where the incident happened?" Holmes asked, glancing up at UU.  
  
Ponder nodded. "I sneezed."  
  
"Well, have a care not to this time. You don't want to make any more people angry with you.. Speaking of which, would you be kind enough to inform Vetinari that the dog, Gaspode, is owed a steak?"  
  
Ponder looked like he'd rather have his spleen extracted through his nose with a fireplace poker than tell Lord Vetinari that he needed to do anything right now. "I'll try to remember, sir. You'll be happy to know, by the way, that if everything goes well, you'll be able to keep the clothes you're wearing this time."  
  
"Good," Holmes replied thoughtfully, "To judge by his pyjamas, I would say that Vetinari is right around six feet tall – and thus six inches shorter than me… so he would likely have acquired clothing of his own, as I did, rather than wear mine. Switching clothing once again after all that would be a horrible inconvenience."  
  
"Yes, sir," Ponder replied dutifully.  
  
"By the way, you dropped this in your fright," Holmes added, returning the omniscope, "I'm sure you wouldn't want me to keep it by mistake."  
  
"Oh… thank you. If you would follow me, we'll get everything set up for the reverse transfer." He opened the omniscope. "Skazz?"  
  
*  
  
(a) For example, everyone at Unseen University knew how fast the Dean could move when he heard Mrs Whitlow had made one of her famous white chocolate raspberry cheesecakes for dessert and thus the Running of the Dean became a favoured activity for thrill-seeking students. The rest of the senior faculty did little to discourage it, since it quickly eliminated the ones who were too stupid to have any business practicing magic in the first place.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
"Aye?" Skazz addressed his watch once again, as Vetinari, Skazz, and I mounted the steps to the apartment. To my uneasiness, the orangutan brought up the rear of our curious parade.  
  
"You went back, didn't you?" scolded the voice I now knew to belong to Mr Stibbons, "after I told you not to."  
  
"Look, Ponder, we had a couple of hours to kill while His Lordship finished up. How was I supposed to know they'd make the Librarian wait in the lobby?"  
  
"He's an *orangutan*!" Ponder explained, and I glanced at the only such creature involved in this whole bizarre adventure. It grinned at me, and I felt my hopes plummet that anyone from Ankh-Morpork was sane. "They probably don't serve apes around London!"  
  
"Well, that was no excuse for him to drag me out by my ankles," Skazz whinged, "Just as it was getting good, too."  
  
Vetinari cleared his throat purposefully. "I'm certain this entire conversation can wait until later?" he said, "Or at least until everyone is back where they need to be. Watson, I'm sure you won't mind informing your friend of the billing arrangements, since I won't be here to make sure of them myself."  
  
"I *am* going to have to warn him that you put a knife through the man's arm!" I replied, "just in case Cavitz sends the police to arrest you."  
  
"Do as you please." He set the two borrowed knives on the table, and I wondered what would have been the outcome had the first knife missed its mark.  
  
"Oh, that reminds me, Dr Watson," said Skazz, "It would really be helpful if you weren't to say anything to anyone in London about this whole episode. I mean, people from your world learning about magic when they're not ready for it could have some serious quantum effects."  
  
"Quantum?" I echoed, puzzled by the strange word, "What on earth does that mean?"  
  
"Judging by what I've seen around here, your scientists won't figure that out for fifty years or so. Just trust me that mucking about with quantum would be a bad thing. Are you ready to go, Your Lordship?"  
  
"Of course I am," Vetinari returned, "The sooner this is fixed the better it shall be… for *all* parties concerned."  
  
"All ready over here," Skazz said into the handheld device, "Everything set over there?"  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
"Everything's ready to go," Ponder said into his omniscope. He and Holmes had reached the Hex lab by then, and Holmes was studying the thinking engine with open curiosity. "Mr Holmes? Are you ready to go?"  
  
Holmes looked over at Ponder, then back at Hex. "I expect that even if I stayed here for a lifetime, I would never unravel even half the mysteries in this place."  
  
"That's why they have people like me, sir," Ponder said, "All the same it was a pleasure working with you, even if you can be a bit of a jerk."  
  
Holmes turned to Ponder. "And I am relieved that this city has at least one level head in it, even if it does belong to a…" His lip curled slightly and the word almost didn't make it out: "Wizard."  
  
The wizard and the detective shook hands.  
  
"We going or what?" chirped the omniscope.  
  
"This is where it might get a bit complicated," Ponder said to Holmes, "You might want to close your eyes if you don't want to get a nice view of what's in between here and there at about seventeen billion miles per second."  
  
Holmes took his word for it and shut his eyes as Ponder started the incantation. This time nobody sneezed, and Holmes accordingly had an impression of extreme acceleration as he left the Discworld.  
  
*****  
  
::London::  
  
The exact event in which Vetinari left the drawing room and Holmes returned is still hazy in my mind, and I tend to get a frightful headache whenever I try to figure out any details, so I will leave it to the reader to judge what really happened, or if perhaps this retired army surgeon might be going a bit daft in his old age. Some how during the space of a few seconds the strange purple-haired young man and his pet orangutan had also gone.  
  
What I do know for certain was that my friend had returned, wearing a curious combination of clothing – it was largely English save for the very ill-fitting overcoat of oiled canvas (which was too broad at the shoulders by half again), and the fact that his braces appeared fused to his trousers, and his waistcoat to the back of his shirt. His face had a slight pallor and the roughness that comes from a night's growth of whiskers, and a sticking plaster at his right temple and a certain stiffness to his movements bespoke a difficult time in the mythical city of Ankh-Morpork. Mostly, however, he looked tired, so I helped him to the couch so that he could lie down and rest while I examined him for any untreated injuries. His ribs were bound as well, I found, and I wondered what might have happened to him while he was away.  
  
I was about to return Mrs Hudson's cutlery to her when I heard Holmes say my name. I turned back to find him sitting up and examining something he held cupped in his palms.  
  
"Watson, do you have any idea what exactly transpired over the past forty-eight hours?"  
  
I confessed that I did not.  
  
"I have only two possible answers," said he, "The first is that what I remember happening is absolutely accurate, which does little to explain many things I witnessed in Ankh-Morpork."  
  
"And the second?" I asked.  
  
"The second possibility is that my memories are the result of a bizarre dream or fevered delirium, but while it explains away many of the events its fatal flaw is that it fails to explain what I have just found in my pocket."  
  
I went over to see what he was talking about, and I was shocked at my discovery, for he was holding a perfectly rendered and intricately detailed figurine in the likeness of a startled mouse, down to the filaments of fur and wiry whiskers.   
  
It was made out of pure gold.  
  
*****  
  
::Ankh-Morpork::  
  
"I'm very sorry, sir," Ponder grovelled, "I ought to have warned you about the results in the difference in mass between you and Mr Holmes."  
  
"Results such as excessive momentum remaining?" Vetinari said, his voice slightly muffled, "I figured that out early on, when I skidded sideways out of Mr Holmes' bed upon arriving in Ankh-Morpork."  
  
"I'm really really sorry, sir."  
  
"Stibbons, stop being sorry and help me out of this access panel."  
  
Ponder and Tezz hurried over to where Vetinari was stuck headfirst in one of Hex's panels, buried up to mid-chest in the thinking engine. They each grabbed a wrist and tugged, managing to pull his Patrician free on the third attempt. As Vetinari's feet once again made contact with the floor, there was a frozen silence behind him, like the sound of nobody telling the emperor that he was naked. He turned slowly to regard the two young wizards. Ponder, at least, had gone very pale. You could never tell with Tezz. As he looked from one to the other, Vetinari heard a dry rustling from just outside his field of vision. He turned his head to one side, then the other, trying to see, but the source always stayed just out of sight.  
  
"Stibbons," he said coolly, "fetch me a mirror."  
  
"Sir, are you sure?" Ponder's voice was an octave higher than normal, "we seem to have experienced a bit of a variable during your return trip…"  
  
"Sure?" Vetinari pinched the bridge of his nose. "Let me put it this way. If I do not receive a hand-mirror within the next forty-five seconds, I can name three people who are going to be extremely unhappy, of which I am only one. Understood?"  
  
Like magic, a hand mirror was found and thrust into the Patricians hand. Both wizards took off for the door immediately, with the result that they were both safely out of reach by the time he saw the giant puffball of fuchsia dandelion fluff reflected in the mirror where his hair used to be.  
  
To borrow a handy turn of phrase, Lord Vetinari's face was quickly a study in scarlet.  
  
*****  
  
The End 


End file.
